


The Shadows We Draw

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Bullying, Dark, Horror, M/M, Other: See Story Notes, Violence, Witchcraft, violent imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 23:19:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 75,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5109239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Senior year of high school is generally considered to be a struggle; with a new boyfriend and a group of jocks who won’t stop straight-out harassing him, it’s nearly impossible. Despite being in love and enjoying its perks, Dean grows desperate enough to seek aid from a practiser of one of the oldest arts – witchcraft – to hopefully make their lives (especially Cas’) easier. Spells are a dangerous business, though, and oftentimes, not even the best intentions can make a difference.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. september

**Author's Note:**

> Before I get to thanking people, **there is an additional warning, please read on**. I know that some people don't want to be spoiled on the big things (which is why I didn't use a tag) but I do need to warn for this, so if you want to check just in case, **PLEASE HOVER OVER THESE WORDS**. Just stay safe, guys.  
>  Final reminder that even though this may sound like a cute high school AU, it does get dark towards the end. I should also say that the bullying in this fic does _not_ include any homophobic comments. 
> 
> And now I get to thank people! 
> 
> I need to thank my artist [Rae](http://padaleckhi.tumblr.com), who is the loveliest, most talented person. Her art keeps taking my breath away and I am so, so lucky that she claimed me back in August. SO LUCKY.  
> Please check out the art masterpost [HERE](http://padaleckhi.tumblr.com/post/132229617437/the-shadows-we-draw-by-deanghostchester-aka). She made a fanmix (with beautiful, beautiful cover art) as well, you can find it [HERE](http://8tracks.com/padaleckhi/the-shadows-we-draw) on 8tracks or on Tumblr [HERE](http://padaleckhi.tumblr.com/post/132229620807/for-the-one-who-fell-and-the-one-who-flew-a).
> 
> Thank you to Hayley, my alpha reader (and pretty much my alpha _everything_ ) for supporting me and holding my hand through this. ♥  
> Biggest thank you to Niki, Max and Yulya for saving my ass and stepping up when I really needed a beta _quick_. They were all absolutely amazing. Any remaining mistakes are my own. Special thanks to Max who listened to me when I got this idea last year, then listened to me whine about writing it, then read it right away, and _then_ volunteered to help beta it and read it for the second time. I am blown away by all of you, thank you so much for everything.
> 
> And you guys -- I hope you enjoy the fic!

 

 

  


 

 

_oh, there's a light_  
_your albatross; let it go, let it go_  
_oh, your albatross; shoot it down  
_ _shoot it down_

weight of living pt I | bastille

  

Much like _Mean Girls_ preaches, high schools are usually just weird groups of people. In Dean’s experience, it’s just not as movie-like and intense. His high school (and this is his senior year, so he knows his way around) is a lot more like this:

You can’t tell much by where people sit in the cafeteria, mostly because half the students hide away with their food somewhere else and only a small portion of them (mostly science nerds, though) stay in the cafeteria. The rest scatter around the school on most days. Where the groups are most visible is in classes.

The self-proclaimed jocks and popular girls occupy the front rows, because someone probably told them once that it’s darkest under the lamp. Gamers and (also self-proclaimed) nerds huddle somewhere in the middle. The rest of the class, therefore the back rows, are people who just sort of… click. No weird name to call them, unless you want to count the bizarre stuff that binds them, like their obscure obsessions with arts and crafts, knitting or intense roleplaying.

And then there’s Dean and Bela, and Bela’s girlfriend Charlie, sitting next to each other as one of, uh, maybe two groups that are just best friends.

(To be honest, in a _Mean Girls_ universe, he secretly thinks they would be the _greatest-people-you’ll-ever-meet_ group.)

“There are two things that I absolutely hate,” Bela states all of a sudden. “First days and cheap silky thongs.”

“Uh, you also hate boss fights in video games,” Charlie comments.

Bela rolls her eyes. “Wrong. I hate _video games,_ but you would probably break up with me if I refused to play them.”

“That’s honorable of you to lie like that, but I know you’re secretly counting minutes till you get back to Dragon Age as we speak.”

“Can you not,” Dean groans tiredly, the four hours of sleep that he got clearly written in the bags under his eyes. “It’s enough that I have to watch that,” he motions towards the jocks that are laughing loudly as one of them imitates fornication with some _really_ freaky pelvis action. “group of brainwashed monkeys, I don’t need you two bickering or whatever.”

“It keeps our relationship healthy,” Charlie argues as she moves towards Bela.

Were they hanging out in one of their houses or simply someplace else, a kiss would follow, but it doesn’t do good to be affectionate around each other here. Another thing about Dean’s high school: everyone is kind of secretly iffy about same sex couples. Not the best place to be. The only reason everyone leaves Bela and Charlie alone is because they know Charlie took two years of _krav maga_ , whatever that is, and they all know Bela should really be sitting with the popular girls and jocks.

But she’s not. She’s right here and sometimes her somewhat British accent that she picked up from her very British dad is the most annoying thing in the world.

This is a _sometimes_ situation, obviously.

Dean groans and rests his forehead against the desk, not even checking if it’s filthy or not. He just wants to _sleep_.

One thing he and Bela can agree on is that first days should not be a thing, period. Especially when it comes to school. He is not physically capable of switching from his summer sleeping schedule to an actual healthy one; he was still up at four this morning, scrolling down some book he downloaded in pdf on his phone.

Oh, he regrets that one all right.

“Is it June yet,” he whines just before the class starts and one of the teachers parades in to babble on about their senior year for nearly an hour.

He almost can’t hear Bela over the bell. “Stop being such a piss baby. No one’s happy to be here, okay. But we are, so deal with it.”

“I swear I don’t know why I’m friends with you.”

“I’m everything you want to be, babe, if only you had the balls.” He can smell her strawberry-flavored chapstick all the way from where she’s sitting, and, okay. He is kind of jealous of her attitude and confidence, he’s gotta admit that.

It takes approximately four minutes of their first class for Dean to realize exactly what senior year is: it’s exactly like the last week before Christmas, or any other break, really. You just can’t freaking wait for it to be over; you can feel the shiver of freedom in the tips of your fingers, but it’s still painfully out of reach. Basically, _frustration_ is what it is, and it’s what senior year will be as well.

 

///

  

Dean gets home around four in the afternoon, dragging his feet to the kitchen as one does after the first day of school. Sam is already sitting there – occupying Dean’s usual spot, actually – and talking to their mom, presumably about his first day as well; his first day in high school, no less.

“Heya, Sammy,” Dean greets him semi-excitedly as he drops his bag on the table and makes the few extra steps to the kitchen counter to steal some of whatever his mom is cooking and kiss her hello on the cheek. He manages to steal a tiny piece of meat before Mary swats his hands away, and leaning against the kitchen counter, taking a bite, he smirks. “So how was your first day?”

“You hurt my feelings when you didn’t show up during lunch break to ask,” Sam says mockingly and dramatically clutches his chest. “I dunno. Probably better than yours, though, considering you were still up at four.”

“How do you even know that?”

“Dean, what did I tell you about staying up like that?” Mary hums, her back still turned to him, so Dean takes the liberty of running his finger across his throat while mouthing ‘you’re dead’ to Sam.

“Ugh, mom,” he says out loud and after the last piece of meat disappears in his mouth, he rubs his greased fingers on his jeans. “I just couldn’t sleep, is all.” He crosses the room and tries to ruffle Sam’s hair (not succeeding – despite being all legs and bony hips, the boy has reflexes like an experienced fighter, Jesus Christ). “Seriously though, was anyone mean to you or whatever?”

“Eh,” Sam shrugs, “I got a few funny looks after I said I’ll sign up for the drama club, but I don’t really care.”

Dean raises his eyebrow, but being mostly used to how Sam is and how comfortable he is with himself, (something Dean is actually a bit jealous of) he limits himself to just that. He sits down then, where his dad usually sits, and moves the chair to the side a bit to get more leg space. “And? Teachers?”

“Oh God,” Sam whines, “I totally understand why you always complained about Crowley. He is a complete,” – and he mouths the rest – “ _asshole_.”

“Ha! I told you you’d get him for math. Good luck with that. So you got Mrs. Harvelle for English, right?”

“Actually, no. I thought I would but when I got there, this young chick –”

Mary clicks her tongue warningly – she doesn’t like it at all when Sam picks Dean’s vocabulary up. She doesn’t like when Dean talks like that to begin with, but she’s given up on that; Sam, though, is probably still not a lost case in her book.

“—Right, sorry, this young woman was already sitting behind the teacher’s desk, and I’ve _never_ seen her before. She introduced herself as Ms. Anna, ah, Novak I think. Ever heard of her?”

“Nope, never. What’s she look like?”

“Thin. Kind of tall? Long red hair.”

“Yeah, she must be new. I wonder if she’s subbing for Ellen or if she’s here for good. I didn’t even know Ellen stopped teaching, man. That’s a shame, I liked her.”

“I literally heard you say she’s an ‘old hag’ more than once, you know,” Sam reminds him as he smirks.

Dean throws his hands up in a what-can-you-do gesture. “That’s, like, the badge of honor in my book, since it probably means she actually made me do my homework.”

“I thought you always did your homework,” Mary counters as she turns away from the kitchen counter, untying the apron from around her waist and hanging it in its spot near the fridge. She reaches up and unties her hair as well, lets it fall on her shoulders in blonde waves. She’s smiling, though, so Dean bites his lip so as not to ruin the mood with his dumb defense system. “The food will be ready in a bit, boys, so how about you help me clean up?”

Dean is fast to get up from where he’d been sitting, trying to put on the best apologetic look he can. “I actually thought I’d go hang out with Bela, if that’s okay.”

Mary considers him for a second, but Dean is not trouble, never has been. Mary is quite fond of both Bela and Charlie as far as Dean knows, actually – the only thing she complains about is how often they steal Dean away. Which, hands down, is more than half-true. He does like spending time with them; they feel like home much like this house does, and that’s rare in people.

“Home by eleven,” she says, even though it’s not necessary. Dean knows the rules (and hates them sometimes). “Take this, at least.”

She hands him a blood-red apple, a bit Snow White-like. “Thanks, ma’am.”

“And if you have any homework to do, _do it_ ,” she warns him, even though she’s still got that playful look on her face.

“You’re never gonna let that one go, are you?”

“Come on, give me a break. I only have less than ten months to tease you with this stuff. Don’t be a killjoy.”

“Who even says killjoy anymore?” Dean laughs, because the ugh-you’re-so-old jokes _never_ actually get old with your parents (if your parents are cool enough to roll with it, and Dean’s are), and he grabs his bag again. “Okay, gotta go. Say hi to dad from me, even though I’ll probably see him later, so – But yeah. Going.”

He hears his mother laugh and he hears Sam’s muffled voice as he probably mocks Dean behind his back as he leaves the house, stepping out into the warm September sun, setting out to walk the few blocks to Bela’s giant house.

Charlie won’t be there, as she’s got a part-time job at the local comic book store, so it’ll be like old times, back when Bela believed she would never find anyone she could love and they were just two best friends hanging out, complaining about life and people.

He considers throwing the apple away at first – his mother should know that if he’s eating apples, it’s only because they’re a central part of apple pies (obviously), but he changes his mind. Bela will be glad – Bela will eat that apple.

 

///

  

Dean decides that second days are about as bad as first days, and considering the pissed off expression on Bela’s face, she would probably agree with him. The initial fight mode they were in the day before is completely gone and it looks like they don’t even have the energy to tease each other and fake-argue about stupid things.

Charlie is reading the new _Ms. Marvel_ issue, her head heavy in her arm as she rests her chin in her palm, and Bela is idly tracing nonexistent patterns on Charlie’s jeans with her fingers. Dean is just… sort of there, the only thing keeping him alive being that at least he’s not a freshman like Sam is.

It’s the senior-year morning slumber, he decides, because even though half of the people still aren’t even here (even though it’s only a couple of minutes till the bell), the ones who are are strangely quiet. Sure, some of them are talking, but Dean honestly doesn’t get where they’re getting the drive for it. _How_. His only current need, as it always has been, is sleep.

At first, Dean doesn’t bother to look up when the door to their classroom opens and someone stumbles in. He’s just telling Bela about the new teacher and lazily wondering out loud whether they’ll get her too.

The classroom goes quiet then, and initially, Dean thinks it might be that he has missed the bell and the teacher has already paraded inside, and that’s really what makes him look up.

What he sees is far more ordinary than that. It’s just Krissy (one of the self-proclaimed nerds) and some guy Dean has never seen before with a bird’s nest for a haircut, the hair itself dark brown, almost black. At least he’s not wearing a tie of some sort as some newbies do; he’s wearing a dark blue hoodie, hanging loose over his tense shoulders.

“Hey,” he says and nudges Bela in the shoulder. “Who’s that?”

Bela shrugs. “I don’t know. For some reason the principal forgot to call me yesterday and tell me who exactly the new student is.”

“Aw, he looks lost,” Charlie chimes in and all three of them watch as the new guy thanks Krissy in a rather awkward way and quickly skims the classroom, trying to spot an empty seat he could take. The only desk available is on the far left across the classroom; the tail end of the nerd groups, just behind the jocks and other popular kids.

“He looks normal to me,” Dean says, feeling somewhat defensive, especially after one of the popular girls loudly mocks the guy’s appearance and everyone in the front row laughs. The guy’s cheeks flame up in an angry pink color of embarrassment and if Dean’s not seeing things, his hands tremble as he fishes out a notebook and a pen to go with it out of his black bag.

“ _Stop staring._ ” Dean doesn’t have to turn around to see Bela roll her eyes at him – he knows that’s what happens, and that’s pretty much all he needs to tear his eyes away from the new guy.

The bell rings less than a minute after that and Dean is somewhat both disappointed and glad when the familiar figure of Mrs. Ellen Harvelle enters the classroom and she cuts them a strict smile.

During attendance, one name rolls after another; Dean wants to know the guy’s name but he’s not under A, or C, or K. By the time the M names roll around Dean starts jiggling his leg almost subconsciously; even though there are only about twenty people in the room, the roll seems to be never ending.

Then ‘Castiel Novak’ comes along, with the strangest name Dean has ever heard. The same girl who mocked his looks now laughs again and nudges one of her friends to get her in on the joke.

“Well,” Bela tells Dean after the attendance is done and the teacher starts talking about, surprise surprise, this being their senior year, “At least they’ll have a really hard time coming up with insults that rhyme with his name.”

“I never took you for an optimist,” Dean mumbles and then shuts up before Ellen can see them talk.

He can’t help but look over across the classroom at the new guy, though, and watch him idly staring out of one of the windows.

 

///

  

“So is the new teacher his mother or something?” Charlie asks conversationally during lunch break, taking a bite out of her tuna sandwich.

They’re sitting outside at one of the tables, Charlie next to Bela and Dean opposite them, nibbling at his own food with disinterest.

“Doubt it,” Bela says as he steals one of the cookies from Charlie’s lunchbox. “Dean said the new teacher was young. And Castiel Whatever isn’t exactly twelve.”

“Unless he has that disease that makes you look older than you are.”

“Progeria,” Dean comments, taking half of the cookie Bela offers him after she’s had a few bites.

“Yes, that.”

“Maybe she’s his sister, then,” Charlie goes on, and it’s kind of amusing, the way even seniors think that new people are some sort of a live out-of-a-museum artifact, something to be talked about and stared at. Not even Dean can stop himself from wondering, even if it does annoy him mildly.

“Darling,” Bela says and leans into Charlie, “if it’s of such interest to you, just go ahead and ask him. Maybe you’ll make him blush.”

“I focus on making _you_ blush, but thanks. Maybe I will.”

Dean zones out at this point – he’s glad that Bela has someone who can keep up with her and he’s glad that it’s Charlie, because Charlie is – for the lack of a better word – awesome, but listening to their constant talk as they challenge each other is exhausting.

Not that zoning out and focusing on the table a few feet away from theirs is a better solution. It’s just his luck, really, it’s his entire life that he somehow always ends up facing the jocks and their stupidity. Logically, with age, Dean should have grown more tolerant of stupid people around him, but in reality, it just seems to get worse. Where they used to just annoy him with their stupid sex jokes and constant sports talk and spitting on the sidewalk, he straight out _hates_ them now. When a wave of hysterical laughter erupts from their table, Dean glares at them.

“If I don’t commit seppuku in the next ten months because of these people, I could actually be considered a saint.”

Charlie laughs, probably just for Dean’s benefit because it’s not like he was actually being funny, and a voice sounds just behind him.

“Consider hitobashira instead,” it says. Before Dean turns around, he sees both Charlie and Bela look up with interest.

Somehow, he is not very surprised to see the new guy, Castiel, when he does turn around. He’s standing there like a deer in headlights, clutching a tray with actual cafeteria food scattered around it, like maybe it fell off and he had to pick it all back up in a hurry. _Oh_ , so that’s what the idiots were laughing at.

“I don’t know what that is,” Dean says when he realizes that maybe he should speak up instead of just stare dumbly.

“It’s a Japanese sacrifice ritual. They buried folks alive near huge buildings and bridges and dams so the Gods would keep them standing.”

Dean smirks. Normally, he would be coming up with something witty to say, like – hey, wouldn’t want to sacrifice these stupid guys, don’t wanna risk this school being here forever. But, thing is, he just kind of… can’t. So he instead, he offers a huge teeth-showing grin that eats up half of his face, because he likes that. He likes that this random guy can talk about obscure Japanese rituals. It’s nice.

Except, _what_. What exactly would ever be nice about that?

“Hey, sit with us,” Charlie, who is apparently the only normally functioning human being at this table, says. (Well, technically speaking, Bela just doesn’t care; it’s her default setting, it’s just Dean that’s stopped functioning.)

“Thanks,” Castiel smiles in a very relieved way and slumps down right next to Dean, placing the ugly grey tray next to Dean’s lunchbox. His shoulders are bizarrely up almost to his ears, he’s so tense.

Funnily, the first thing that Dean notices is that Castiel’s hands are insanely nice and that he smells, well, also insanely nice. Lots of vanilla, but Dean likes that. Taking a peek out of the corner of his eye, he sees the dark-blue hoodie and a white shirt underneath with something on the front. He can only guess it’s a band shirt or part of some franchise.

“So, how do you like this hellhole?” Charlie asks, starting her interrogation. She doesn’t get to do it often, so she always makes the best of it – meaning that she’s just outrageously excited and can’t stop the smile on her face.

(She got here during their sophomore year when everyone knew each other already and she probably hoped someone would be as friendly as she is now. No such luck, though – not until Bela kindly took the ‘kick me’ note off her back, scrunched it up and handed it right into Charlie’s palms with an awkward imitation of an apologetic smile. It kind of escalated quickly after that.)

“It’s not so bad, I guess,” Castiel tells her and tries a sheepish smile, although it’s not a very convincing one.

“Ah, I wouldn’t eat that,” Dean interrupts their conversation when he sees Castiel take the plastic fork and charge for the piece of chicken breast on his plate.

“Why? It didn’t really touch the ground, so it should be okay – ”

“No, you don’t understand,” Dean says, trying to ignore the irrational ping of guilt he feels in his chest at that. What a disaster Castiel’s first day must be. It would be disastrous to begin with – who on Earth would want to have a first day on the second day? “It’s not – Listen. Don’t trust the food here, okay. They probably didn’t use any salt and you’d chew yourself to death trying to get this down.” He points to the piece of white meat on Castiel’s plate with his finger.

“Thanks for the warning, but I don’t have anything else to eat, so...” Castiel trails off, smiling again. Really, at this point he’s more of a puppy than a human being, so it’s not like Dean can do anything but move his lunchbox towards him.

“Take one of my sandwiches or the fruit or something. I can’t let you eat that stuff, man.”

“Holy shit,” Charlie exclaims, “Is anyone else getting, like, déjà vu? I mean, not that I was there, but I feel like I’m witnessing the first Harry-Ron interaction all over again. Seriously.”

Dean’s insides crumble. He stops breathing for a second, honestly. Castiel is, well, kind of attractive and going into Harry Potter territory right away is a bit dangerous. He can feel the tips of his ears sport a Gryffindor-red color as he looks down.

“They _did_ end up being friends for life – and you don’t say no to those.” Castiel looks to the side, right at Dean, and it’s the first time that his smile actually looks genuine. “Thanks, uh –”

“Dean,” he introduces himself quickly. “Hi.”

“Hey. Thanks, Dean.” And the smile is still there, wide as ever. “I’m Castiel. But it’s not like you guys could have missed that this morning.”

“Yeah. I’m Charlie. And this grumpy lady is Bela.” Charlie puts her arm around her girlfriend in a suggestive way – it’s clear that they’re an item without her having to say it out loud.

Castiel doesn’t react in any way, really, other than smiling at the two of them as well, making the grin that bit less special.

“Nice to meet you. That’s a nice necklace you have there,” he points towards Bela’s charm. She has been wearing it for weeks now – its black pearl glimmers in the autumnal light even as she quickly hides it underneath her black shirt. Not even Dean knows where it came from – it appeared out of nowhere after she got back from her summer holiday.

The smile she cracks is not a very convincing one. “Why, thank you,” she says. It’s hard to tell whether she’s used to getting compliments or if she’s simply got her voice under more control; she sounds like she means it.

“Any of you guys have History next? I have no idea where to find it and I don’t see my morning guide anywhere.” Castiel fidgets in his seat, but he has taken one of Dean’s sandwiches after all. It almost looks like he’s too anxious to start it, though – it looks almost alien in his left hand.

Before Dean can say anything, Bela outruns him, eager. “Dean can take you there. Me and Charlie have French next but Dean hates himself, so he’s got History too.”

“Can I ask that favor, then?” Castiel asks as he turns to Dean, and it’s only now that Dean realizes how closely they’re sitting, as if Castiel either didn’t understand personal space or chose to ignore it altogether. Their knees almost bump when Castiel moves his entire body and leans against the table with his right hand, facing Dean fully.

The stare feels terrible, even though the smile on Castiel’s face is hopeful. Dean feels the grease on his fingers from the sandwich, suddenly worried that there are chocolate-flavored leftovers from Bela’s cookie hiding in the corners of his mouth, scared that maybe his hair is sticking out every which way messily and it doesn’t look half as good on him as it does on the new boy.

“Sure, dude. No problem,” he squeezes out, and if it weren’t for the raised-eyebrow smirk he receives from Bela, he would probably choose to believe that he got out of this one smoothly.

 

///

  

There is no way in hell that this is accidental.

The next morning, Castiel appears in the same damn blue hoodie, except this time he takes it off promptly and reveals the Gryffindor shirt underneath. Dean initially wants to wave at him and invite him over from his hell-of-a-seat in the nerds’ row, but he only finds it in himself to blink repeatedly and smile awkwardly when Castiel acknowledges him with a grin.

“He probably saw the dreamy look in your eyes when I mentioned Harry Potter yesterday,” Charlie tells him jokingly.

“Yeah, right.” Dean rolls his eyes, trying to shake it off and not take Charlie’s words seriously.

“You were being _very_ obvious, darling,” Bela informs him, clicking her tongue. “I hope you at least managed to befriend him on your way to that class.”

“Not really,” Dean admits. “We were mostly silent. Only thing I found out was that the new teacher really is his sister.”

“ _Yes_ , bitches. Told you so,” Charlie exclaims as she fist-bumps the air.

“You’re an idiot. I keep telling you this but you just won’t learn. Do you like him?”

“He got here _yesterday_. The first time I saw him was literally twenty four hours ago.”

“Aw, have you been counting?” Bela mocks him and fakes a flinch when he punches her in the shoulder lightly.

 

///

 

Dean spots Castiel near the lockers after the next class and it takes a whole lot of sheer will to, well, stop being an idiot like Bela said and jog up to him. Thing is, it’s only now from up-close that Dean notices the guy’s headphones and actually hears faint music coming from them – no point in trying to talk over it, then. Besides, if Dean’s learned something from living with a younger brother, it's that it’s basically the highest form of rudeness to insist on talking to someone when they obviously don’t want people to talk to them.

So, that’s how it happens – the awkward standing in the middle of the hallway and staring at the dark-brown crown of Castiel’s head. That goes on for at least half a minute (but Dean feels like it’s taken _years_ away from him and his health).

Then, the only thing that is actually worse than this happens.

Castiel closes his locker (by now, Dean can hear him hum along with the music, just for himself) and instead of turning around, he takes a step back and bumps right into Dean, his back against Dean’s chest.

The only thing that could make this _even worse_ would be if Castiel dropped his things, but thankfully, it looks like he’s regained his balance since his accident yesterday with the cafeteria tray, and he manages to hold on to them.

There are only a few inches parting them height-wise, but when he turns around, obviously concerned and worried, he still has to look up – and Dean has to look down. Castiel’s eyes are blue as well – it’s a shade between his blue hoodie and the neon-bright color of the lockers, and even though it should remind Dean of ice and coldness, looking into them is strangely warming.

“Oh, hey!” Castiel shouts, then realizes he’s still got his headphones in and quickly tears them out with his free hand. “Didn’t see you there, sorry,” he adds in his normal voice.

“Hey. I was just, um – cool shirt.”

Dean wants to punch himself in the face immediately, the second it’s out of his mouth. He has no idea why he said that – considering he actually had a valid excuse to talk to him – but boom, it’s there, it’s done. Would it be too obvious if he just started banging his head against the wall now?

Castiel’s face lights up in a smile, though. Whatever he was expecting Dean to say, it wasn’t this, and Dean can tell that it’s not a bad thing. The smile is the brightest thing Dean’s seen all day – brighter than the lockers, brighter than the early morning light blinding him when he walked out of his house.

“Thanks!” Castiel exclaims happily, as loudly as before even though his headphones are out and hanging from his hand now. “What’s yours? House, I mean?”

“Uh,” Dean falters and rubs the back of his neck in an uncertain manner, “I don’t really know. Don’t think I fit any of ‘em.”

“Well, that’s okay,” Castiel says encouragingly, fixing up the strap of his bag on his shoulder. “You’ll figure it out eventually, everyone does.” It looks almost as if he wants to pat Dean’s shoulder to lift his spirits, but he limits himself to a tense smile.

He sets out walking, then, and Dean can’t think of anything better to do than to follow. “I see you’ve learned your way around already.”

“Yeah,” he nods, pressing into Dean as he tries to avoid one of the younger boys who’s running down the hall in a rather careless manner. “I didn’t forget my brain at home today so I actually thought to ask the way to my next class after my last class.”

“Too bad,” Dean muses, “Was hoping I’d get to be your guide again today.”

A short silence follows; it’s long enough to make Dean question what he said, but short enough not to completely undermine it. Then, “Pretend I never said anything. How do I get to Biology?”

Dean laughs heartily, allowing himself the careless moment of believing that maybe Castiel spotted Dean across the classroom much like Dean did, and took to him for the same inexplicable reasons. Some questions don’t need answers, right?

“Let me take you there, newbie.”

Dean smiles and his arm itches to reach out and wrap around Castiel’s shoulder, but after all, it is just how he said it was – they don’t know each other, they’re not really friends, they’re not anything and there’s no reason for Dean to want to be doing this.

And yet.

“I hope you know that once you sit with us, you’re in for good,” he tells Castiel once he gets them to his next class.

“Oh, thank God,” Castiel groans and nods. “You just saved me from having to have lunch with my sister. Who, may I remind you, is _one of the teachers_. So, same place as yesterday?”

No, Dean wants to say. He wants to say that they usually hide away in the music room on the couch in the far corner. But then he realizes that Castiel wouldn’t know where the music room is (in the second, old building), and he doesn’t want to cause him trouble.

“Yeah, same place.”

“I’ll see you there, then. Thank you again, Dean.”

“No problem, Cas. Um. Okay that I call you that?” Castiel nods eagerly. “’Kay. See ya.”

He waves, like the complete dumbass that he is (it is so official by now he could actually get it written somewhere on his ID, probably), and turns on his heels.

He picks up his pace once Castiel disappears in the classroom, knowing that he might as well start jogging as his next class is on a different floor entirely and the bell is about to ring, but… _it was worth it_ , he thinks to himself. Which, honestly, doesn’t make any sense.

Long story short, he is too lost in thought and in too much of a hurry to hear the loud bang coming from Castiel’s classroom. It’s probably nothing anyway – public schools can be scary and very loud sometimes.

 

///

  

The third week of September brings along cold wind disguised in seemingly warm sunshine. The mornings are difficult for Dean – watching sunlight fight its way through the blinds in his room in a lie, and then stepping out and breathing in chilly air, the promised rays of sunshine turning their back on him, cold as everything else. The afternoons are even more difficult; lulled by the noon-warmth, the afternoon-cold comes as an unwelcome surprise to him.

They cut through the park anyway, even though Dean’s only wearing a long-sleeved Led Zeppelin shirt. Castiel is, as always, armored up with his blue hoodie. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever seen him without it.

“So what exactly did you get detention for?” Dean asks, trying to sound casual, his fists balled by his sides to keep warmth and nervousness in.

They are still not friends. It has been three weeks and they’re still not more than lunch buddies, even though Dean has been meaning to invite Castiel over when they hang out with Bela and Charlie for days now. But he still hasn’t. So they’re still not friends.

It’s only gotten worse, all things considered. Because now, after getting to spend some time with him, even if it is only through lunch breaks and shared looks during the classes they have together, Castiel is definitely more than just nice-looking.

Castiel is bizarre information ranging from Ancient Greek traditions to Harry Potter trivia, even though his pop culture knowledge doesn’t go far beyond that. Castiel is shy looks and lovely smiles, and he’s shared lunches because he still thinks he owes Dean something for that first lunch back then, and he is the reason Dean can’t even be grumpy about getting up early in the morning, because it means school and school means Cas. And that makes it just so much more difficult.

“I pushed someone and a teacher saw it. Didn’t see how the guy pushed me first, though. You?”

Things Castiel _isn’t_ : The laughter behind his back wherever he goes. The lockers he’s shoved into daily. The mocking gestures thrown at him, the pranks played on him, the ugly glares.

Dean doesn’t know how that happened, exactly. He’s not aware of anyone else ever being bullied in their class like this; even if the jocks or whoever else ever looked at him the wrong way, they never dared to touch him. With Castiel, somehow, it’s different. Maybe it’s because his sister is one of the teachers, maybe it’s that he likes to fight back despite how… well, fragile and soft he may seem, because he does seem like that sometimes. And it angers some people, that even boys like Cas can hold their own ground without being loud and obnoxious about it.

Whatever it is, it’s the reality whenever he gets to see Cas.

“I was just late for class,” he laughs, deciding not to comment on the rest, forcing himself into thinking that it’s for Cas’ benefit, even though it’s more likely for his own.

They walk quietly for a bit, Dean stepping on or kicking every dry leaf playing in the dark brown autumn colors.

The park is unusually quiet for this time of the day. He’d expected parents with their children, or people walking their dogs, but he and Cas are mostly the only ones here. The sky is a dark-blue pattern of clouds and the birds have stopped their chirping in the expectation of rain.

“Can we sit for a while?” Castiel suggests quietly all of a sudden as they’re passing a pair of old benches.

Dean shrugs and they drag their feet towards one of them, brushing its wood with their hands so as to swat away any possible dirt. They sit, Cas as close as ever, his knee now bumping Dean’s for real.

Dean’s gaze skims over their surroundings, ending pinned to the ground just in front of the bench. There is a dying tree right in front of them, the few leaves still hanging on it yellowish, brown, ready to fall off.

“I’m just very tired today,” Castiel mumbles and Dean’s eyes shoot up, finding their way to Castiel’s bowed head, lingering on his fallen features.

“Why?”

It’s Castiel’s turn to shrug. “I really do try to not let them get to me, but some days, it’s impossible.”

“Like today?”

Castiel hums in affirmation.

“I’m sorry, man. I think they’re bored, can’t wait to get out of high school, stuff like that.”

“Or they have troubled pasts, have been bullied and are projecting, but that doesn’t really change my situation nor my understanding of it. I hate it.”

Dean nods. “I would hate it too.” But, that’s not the whole truth of it, is it? “I _do_ hate it. I don’t think you deserve any of that bullshit.”

“Thank you,” Castiel smiles, but his face looks just as tired as it did moments ago, except now it’s stretched in a grin. “Maybe I should tell Anna, but I don’t want to rat on them or make a big deal out of it. What would you do?”

“If I could do anything in the world?” Dean smirks. “Man, I would do something big. I would wait and then I would make them pay, in some small way, or, I don’t know. Nah, that’s not really my thing. I dunno, man. I guess I’d just wait it out unless it got serious. Then I’d tell someone.”

Dean’s got it easy – Dean would tell his father and John would make a big racket out of it, _he_ would be the one to make the bullies pay. Dean doesn’t know what Castiel’s home situation is, though. He’s heard rumors that it’s just him and Anna and they have a mother somewhere, but who even knows who spreads those rumors?

“That’s very mature of you, and not at all helpful,” Castiel says, but his tone gives away that the pity party is officially over.

“Hey, I try,” Dean argues, and then he bumps Cas’ knee on purpose, and it totally doesn’t send shivers running up his spine. That’s totally just the late-afternoon chill in the air, thank you very much.

And then, then Dean takes a really deep breath, rubs his palms on his thighs as if he wanted to smooth away his own unreasonable anxiety that takes over him whenever he considers this. Except he means it for real this time.

“Hey, how ‘bout you hang out with us today? Me and the girls are having a little movie night at Bela’s house, I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.”

Castiel’s face only _half_ -falls, so Dean guesses he can take that as a success and wait for the inevitable rejection that’s about to come. Cas might be short on friends, but Dean can see how their group is not very desirable to befriend outside of lunch breaks. Maybe he just prefers to be alone after school, or –

“I’d love to, but I don’t think Bela likes me.”

Dean laughs, in relief and in amusement all the same. “No, don’t think that. It just takes her some time before she starts actually, you know, existing around new people. But I actually think she likes you.”

( _“Come on, dumbass. You two would work together and I wouldn’t say that just about anyone, you know that.”_ )

“Besides,” he adds quickly when he sees the way Castiel considers him doubtfully, “you gotta see her house. It’s practically a mansion, pool and everything. The _flat screen_ , man. Movies are heaven on that. Seriously.”

“Are you sure she wouldn’t mind?”

“Positive. Her parents are away a lot and no matter what she tells you, she likes the company.”

Of course, a short silence follows, and because Dean is Dean he gets ready for rejection again, some other excuse that wouldn’t make either of them look bad.

It’s Cas who bumps Dean’s knee this time, and it stays there, a shy touch. “I’d love to. How do I get there?”

“Let me walk you, like old times,” Dean says and smiles, and God, smiling hasn’t felt this good in freaking months.


	2. october

_cigarette daydream_   
_you were only seventeen_   
_soft speak with a mean streak_   
_nearly brought me to my knees_

cigarette daydreams | cage the elephant

 

 

Dean navigates away from Sam in the rows with comic books, where he’s skimming through the new issue of Buffy, aiming for where Charlie is behind the counter.

“Look at this,” she says the second he gets to her – no hello or anything, just shoves a comic book magazine his way. “Do you think that would be hard to cosplay?”

Dean takes the magazine in his hands and his eyes land on Poison Ivy wrapped in vibrant green vines, with patches of pale skin showing here and there. The color of her hair matches Charlie’s nearly perfectly.

“Well, you’ve got the hair part down already,” he tells her, placing the magazine back on the counter and pointing at the ivy. “Dunno how much _that_ would cost, though.”

“You know, I’ll take the hair thing as a compliment because I love you and I also love Poison Ivy.” Closing the magazine, Charlie runs her fingers through her hair. They plow through air once they get to her shoulders, the habit of having long hair still not gone even though she’s been wearing her hair shoulder-length for almost a year now. It curls just above her chin and underlines her genuine smile. “At least your brother has good taste in things.”

“Ouch,” Dean dramatically clutches his chest and grimaces. “Anyway, that’s not what I wanted to talk about. Bela’s birthday is what I wanted to talk about.”

“Yeah? What about it?”

“Well, what are you getting her? What should _I_ get her?”

Dean is completely lost when it comes to buying gifts for Bela, or anyone else, really – he doesn’t want to straight out ask them what they want, but he has no idea without any help.

“You know she doesn’t want anything. She’s been saying that for weeks now.”

Bela’s birthday is hiding in the middle of the second week of October and it’s true, she has been saying this ever since school started – don’t get me anything, I don’t like birthdays, who cares anyway.

“Do you think she actually means it?” Dean asks with a raised eyebrow, uncertain.

Charlie shrugs, sitting back on her chair and playing with the strings on her hoodie, pulling at them absent-mindedly. “I think she does. I mean, I think we should just get together, maybe buy the food and drinks or whatever, but leave her alone if that’s what she wants.”

“How ‘bout the weekend after? Don’t think she’d appreciate a small party in the middle of the week.”

“Sure, sounds good. I’ll make sure I don’t have a shift. Bela’s house. My mom can cook something delish just for us.”

Dean smiles a secret smile at the pride in Charlie’s face. It’s been just her and her mom for years now, her dad died when she was just a little girl, but the mother-daughter relationship didn’t end up in ruins as it often does; Charlie loves her, _probably_ even more than her female comic book and video game characters.

“I’ll tell Cas?” Dean suggests with a questioning look on his face.

They are friends now, that much Dean can admit even to himself. They have been hanging out ever since that one afternoon after they both got detention, but Dean is still not sure if the girls like hanging out with him as much as Dean does. Maybe his view of him is slightly crooked, because he _likes_ him like a middle school dumbass, and can’t actually say if he’s an annoying ass or not.

Charlie smirks knowingly. “Dude. Of course. How are things going, by the way?”

Dean looks back behind his shoulder, sees that Sam is still too busy with his own comic books. “What things?” he mumbles in a fake question, the tips of his ears burning bright red.

Charlie tilts her head, rests her elbows on the counter and leans towards Dean. “Bro, don’t play dumb with good old me, okay.”

Dean sighs and leans against the counter as well, their heads together as if they were gossiping. “Things ain’t really going, you know. It’s like, a very steady, still, _nothing_. There’s nothing.”

“Sure, except for the giant-ass crush you have on the guy,” Charlie exclaims. “It’s almost disgusting.”

The thing is, Dean is not ready to admit this to himself. Castiel is still the new guy, and Dean does like him, and looking at him, and hanging out with him, but admitting to a crush, to anything that goes beyond some weird-ass aesthetic attraction or _whatever_ , that’s just… Nope.

So, of course he plays it out as a joke. He puts on a dreamy face, hums, blinks a few times.

“Yeah. I just love to dream about that guy. I imagine he’s got _really_ soft skin and his _kisses_ , I bet they’re delish like your mom’s food. And when he does that _thing_ with his _hips_ in bed – ”

“ _Ew_ , please shut up,” Charlie actually steps back and covers her ears for a second, the corners of her mouth down in maybe-disgust. When Dean laughs, though, she joins him and refrains from making any more comments on Dean’s situation, whatever it actually is or isn’t.

Before it can go silent between them, Sam walks up to the counter with a shitload of comic book issues in his arms. “Mom and Dad wouldn’t mind, right?” he asks as he places it all on the counter and looks up at Dean.

“They won’t if they don’t know,” Dean sighs and pulls out his wallet, paying for it all with the money he’s been saving – sometimes, usually on the weekends, he helps out his Dad and Uncle Bobby at the garage and sometimes they give him a little something so he keeps it up. He doesn’t have much, and randomly wasting a lot of money on his brother doesn’t exactly help it, but Dean likes doing it anyway.

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow at school,” Dean tells Charlie when Sam’s comics are safe in a paper bag and they’re about to walk out. Charlie waves him out.

“So, I heard you were talking about some _boy_ ,” Sam says once they’re out, walking across the relatively calm street and continuing up the sidewalk.

“How rude are you, Padawan?” Dean teases him, but his gut squeezes.

He’s not out to Sam. But, then again, he’s not exactly in the closet either; he’s pretty sure Mom suspects something, and apparently, Sam does too. Dean should really watch his mouth and the way he comments on both girls _and_ boys. There’s not much difference and maybe there should be, no matter how okay he is with it.

“Anyone you like?” Sam asks, insisting, completely ignoring Dean’s question.

Is it easier for brothers, or for young people, to pick up on this? What should Dean’s reaction even be? Should he deny it, should he sit Sam down and calmly explain this all to him?

_Do you know it’s not polite to eavesdrop_ is begging to be said to wrap it all up and actually avoid answering, but Dean has never been like that, not with Sam. They are the kind of brothers you see in movies: never anything more serious than gentle teasing, sometimes long talks late into the night despite the age gap between them.

So, that’s why.

“I don’t know yet,” he answers carefully, determinedly looking in front of him. “Would you mind, if I liked a guy?” he adds in a heartbeat, before he can change his mind.

Sam doesn’t stop to think, they don’t even slow their pace. “I thought you liked girls, but it’s whatever. As long as he’s not an asshole.”

“I like girls. But I like guys, too.” And geez, if this isn’t the most bizarre conversation to have on a lazy stroll from a random stop at a comic book store, Dean doesn’t know what is.

“So you’re bi,” Sam sums up beside him, casual as ever.

Dean has never had this said back to him like this, and he’s only said it out loud a few times before, mostly when he was discussing it with Bela back when he figured himself out. But, thing is, it doesn’t sound wrong. The shiver he feels in the pit of his stomach is warm and pleasant and he finds himself thinking, _yes, exactly, that’s me_. He used to think he would never be able to figure it out like this, during the nights he just tossed around (and those happen, still, because it’s not that easy to find bisexual people around you or in the media and it gets frustrating and sets a little flame of doubt in you every now and then), but here he is, comfortable with the term.

“Yeah,” he says, and the breath you always read about, the one that’s been unknowingly held by the protagonist, is finally let out. The October air seems that bit less chilly. “You?”

“Not bi,” Sam answers with a laugh stumbling over his lips.

Dean rolls his eyes. “I meant if you like someone?”

Sam shrugs, hitting Dean in the knee with his bag full of comic books. “Sorta. There’s this girl in English that is _really_ super sweet.”

“Oh, Sammy,” Dean laughs, “What’s her name?”

“Jessica. Why?”

“Just asking,” Dean shrugs. He wants to ask what group she is – he’d bet that Sam is one of the nerds, but he’s got no clue whether he would fall for one of the popular ones or not. And then he realizes – a few weeks into the school year, especially as a freshman, nothing is set in stone. Maybe Sam and Jessica will have a group of their own eventually, without any label to tame them. Dean wonders whether that would be possible for his senior ass – whether he would be able to let go of his own labels. “Why don’t you invite her over some time?”

Another shrug, from Sam this time. “I dunno. I might. We’ll see.”

Dean throws his arm around Sam’s bony shoulders and leans into him, smiling at him. Maybe he should take his own advice and invite Cas over some time.

 

///

 

Turns out, that one is not part of the ‘easier said than done’ category, because Dean actually _does_ manage to invite Cas over the following day. It starts out as an official invitation to Bela’s birthday non-party and ends in a hastily said, ‘Thought maybe we could hang out at my house sometime.’

So, this is where Dean is: in his room, still dressed in what he had on at school – you know, to keep it casual. And this is what he’s doing: just sitting on his bed in a completely lost way, just waiting for the doorbell to ring because Cas is supposed to get here in, uh, exactly thirteen minutes. Dean is pretty sure. Unless he’s late, that is. (Dean is _very_ nervous.)

Said room is kind of messy, but Dean doesn’t want to clean it up _completely_ , because he knows that would be fake and he knows that Cas would guess that, too. So he just gets rid of the filthy items of clothing, but he leaves most of his table in a messy pile of papers and school stuff, and he leaves video games and movies lying around as well.

(He dusts his shelves and the windowsill with one of the dirty socks, but he’s decided to simply forget that altogether as it’s not something to be proud of.)

The doorbell actually rings about five minutes early and Dean nearly kills himself as he trips on the stairs, he’s in such a rush to get the door.

“Hi,” he smiles when he opens it and sees Cas standing there with a sheepish grin, wearing – hold on. He’s not wearing the hoodie. Holy shit, that’s a trenchcoat. Dean is pretty sure that’s a trenchcoat, and it’s just a tad too large for Castiel’s small shoulders. What even.

“Hello,” Castiel reciprocates the greeting and sways on his heels, as if he weren’t sure if he was really invited in, or as if he were a vampire who actually needed permission. Truth be told, Dean can totally see how a vampire would wear a trenchcoat and think it fashionable.

“Come on in,” Dean says and takes a step to the side to free the doorframe so Castiel actually can, you know, come on in. “Technically, we could sneak up to my room, but my mom’s making waffles," he adds when Castiel crosses the doorstep and starts to shrug off the coat. It’s _beige_ , for Christ’s sake.

“I love waffles,” Castiel announces without much hesitation, which officially makes him the only person who actually isn’t anxious about meeting his friend’s parents ( _parent_ , in this case, but still).

Dean leads the way. They cross the hallway in silence, pass the stairs, and Dean then opens up the kitchen door. The sweet smell is overwhelming to Dean’s senses, but not enough for him to ignore his furiously beating heart.

“Hey, Mom,” he says, standing near the dining table, noticing how Cas takes the spot right next to him, the trenchcoat hanging over his arm. “This is Cas, the new guy I told you about.” That probably shouldn’t make him almost-blush, but it does, because it technically counts as admitting to talking and thinking about Cas out of school. Which, okay, that is probably normal with friends, but since Dean likes him, he kind of –

He needs to stop with these frantic thoughts, is what he needs to do. He needs to focus.

Mary is actually sitting down by the table reading a book, waiting for the food to be ready, but she looks up immediately and graces Castiel with one of her wide smiles; the kind she gave her boys when they were little and needed reassurance.

“Why hello there, Cas.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Winchester,” Castiel utters in a tone Dean hasn’t heard him use yet; so polite and quiet, as if he had to work really hard to keep everything peaceful and he found it was easier to achieve like this.

“Are you boys going out?” she asks, her thumb still marking the spot where she stopped reading.

“Actually, I thought we’d just hang out in my room,” Dean says.

“Take something to eat with you. I think there are some leftover potato chips in the cupboard.”

“Sure,” Dean nods, then turns towards Castiel. “You can wait for me in my room while I get it. Just up the stairs and the first room on the left.”

Castiel looks unsure for a second, as if he wanted to back out because navigating a stranger’s house wasn’t originally part of the plan, but then he purses his lips and nods.

Dean’s mother doesn’t say anything while he gets the food and some Coke (and glasses; at this point he’s pretty sure he should have told Cas to just wait and help him), but her gaze doesn’t leave Dean’s back at all, not for a second. She _definitely_ suspects something.

Dean is too busy handling all the items and going over Mary’s reaction to fret too much about what Cas thinks of his room; he practically runs up the stairs and he almost forgets to be nervous as he enters the room.

“Your mom is very nice,” Castiel exclaims the second Dean closes the door and goes to set the food and drinks down on the table. “And your brother is very strange.”

“My brother?” Dean raises an eyebrow, looks behind his shoulder as if he could see through a pair of closed doors all the way to Sam’s room.

“I passed him on my way up. He just… stared at me.”

Dean nods. Because, what else can he do, really? He remembers the conversation he had with Sam the other day very well and he can just be glad his little brother didn’t decide to say something dumb. It’s seriously good that he just stared.

“Ignore him. He’s fourteen.”

“Ah, yes. That surely explains it. Anyway, I like your room,” Castiel concludes.

“Really? Thanks, I guess.” Dean rubs the back of his neck nervously as he steals a look at his room, now seeing it from a different perspective, although he’s not sure it’s the right one.

His room is tiny but packed with stuff – there’s his bed pressed against one wall, then the TV next to it, and a couch with a bean bag beside it leaning against the wall opposite. The table, stationed near the window, is giant and takes up a lot of space. And then there are lame posters everywhere, movie posters and band posters, just to fill up the space even more, as if any bald spots would be too unsettling or would show cracked walls.

The room is a lot like Dean, in a way – he knows he’s much less than he pretends to be, he knows most of him is just the jokes and casual attitude and wit covering the bald patches on him. He’s not sure he likes it, not now, when Cas can see it too.

“What do you want to do?” he asks to shush away his own thoughts, facing Cas full-on. “Movie, video games?”

Castiel shrugs, seems to consider the offer, but Dean feels like he knew the answer that follows even before he asked. “Maybe we could just talk?”

“Sure,” Dean replies, ready for this scenario. “Bean bag or couch?”

“Couch,” Castiel chooses without trouble and crosses Dean’s room towards it, packing his body into the far corner, leaving a lot of space for Dean to sit.

Dean, however, chooses the coward’s way out – he fusses with the potato chips and drinks, and then, still seemingly busy with this, he casually moves the bean bag so it’s near Cas, settling into it shortly afterwards. When Castiel sees that Dean won’t sit next to him, he relaxes a bit and his shoulders fall; he puts the trenchcoat there instead, as if he understood the need to fill up space.

“What did you want to talk about?” Dean inquires, opening the pack of potato chips he snagged and starting to grease up his fingers before offering some to Cas as well.

“Nothing in particular. How about you tell me something about yourself? Something random.”

“I don’t think there’s much to tell,” Dean admits, which is probably the biggest thing he could have chosen to tell him, because it’s a secret that Dean has been hiding away. It is also the truest – he really does not think there’s that much to him.

“And I don’t think that’s true,” Castiel mumbles back, shaking his head no both to Dean’s statement and his offering of chips. “Let’s play twenty questions, then.”

So that’s what they do; eventually, Dean relaxes and regrets that he opted not to sit next to the boy that he likes so much, but perhaps that’s why he didn’t. The laughs they share aren’t forced and Dean has to fight his own disappointment when Cas admits that he told Anna he’d be back for dinner.

“I don’t like cancelling on her, though. I hope you understand?”

Dean does understand now – through the twenty questions, he found out that the rumors were in fact true and Anna has been Castiel’s legal guardian for quite some time now, as their mother had left them and their father is unknown. Dean can’t really _know_ what that feels like, but he can understand, no matter how pouty he wants to be.

“Yeah,” he tells him to reassure him, watching intently as Castiel puts on his ugly beige trenchcoat and somehow manages to look nice in it. “I’ll see you at Bela’s party next week, right?”

Castiel nods. “And also at school.”

“Yes, also at school,” Dean confirms with a smile.

He feels like a kiss would be okay. He genuinely feels like if he tried to lean in and brush his lips against Castiel’s in a shy goodbye peck, Castiel wouldn’t jerk away. But he doesn’t do it; his heart weighs a ton already, and it grows even heavier when he closes the door. Retreating to his room, it now seems overly spacious, and if he breathes in extra deep, all he can smell is vanilla.

 

///

 

Bela’s non-party wraps with the girls deciding to take a swim in the family’s luxurious indoor pool and Cas walking out saying he needs fresh air. Which could be overwhelming, but the glass of champagne they had (out of Bela’s parents’ minibar) makes Dean act on impulse and so he ends up following Cas after a few minutes of crucial decision making.

The yard that envelops Bela’s house is enormous and probably stretches on for at least a mile and a half, but it doesn’t take Dean long to spot Castiel’s silhouette in the dark.

“You probably shouldn’t be sitting down on the ground in this cold,” he informs him once he approaches him, looking down at Cas’ hunched shoulders as Cas tries to keep some warmth.

Castiel looks up, sighs. “Sit with me,” he prompts Dean quietly.

Despite what he’d just said, Dean doesn’t hesitate and flops down next to Cas, his pants getting wet immediately, a chill biting into him from the very start.

Quiet embraces them much like the darkness. Out here, in the outskirts of the city where Bela’s house was built, the stars look brighter and shinier, away from the city lights always trying to put them to shame. Dean can’t help but look up; countless dots pattern the sky in constellations unknown to him, but he respects their secrets too much to try and come up with his own.

“I’ll save the astronomy trivia for some other day,” Castiel notes beside him and moves more into Dean’s side, probably to keep warm.

Dean is cold already, though, and Cas’ side feels icy next to him, not a smidge of body heat comforting him. He can feel the low degrees on his skin and through his clothes, and the tips of his fingers are starting to feel like tiny icebergs. He is determined to sit still, though, at least until his teeth start clattering. October has not been kind to them.

“We moved here from California,” Castiel says suddenly and Dean can’t help but wonder, what is it about these calm quiet moments that makes Cas talk, and why is it Dean that gets to hear it? It feels like a privilege.

“Rain is probably the eighth wonder for you, then.”

Castiel laughs. “Not to mention the cold. Am I still on Earth?”

“I think so,” Dean muses, his fingers idly running through the cold wet grass of Bela’s well-kept lawn. "Wait till the winter starts.”

“What’s it like?” Castiel asks, and his voice sounds like it’s ready for secrets, as if thousands upon thousands of Americans didn’t experience this winter, as if it was Dean’s alone and Castiel was hungry to hear about it.

Dean shrugs, his movements stone-like from the chill. “Just a shitload of snow, really.” He trivializes it, because if he went on in a different manner, perhaps the conversation would take a turn and he’s not sure he’s ready for that to happen.

“I can’t wait to see it.”

_With you_. Dean adds for himself. _I can’t wait to see it with you_.

Dean likes to think they will be able to hide away from the bad under piles of snow. Cas’ situation at school is still pretty much the same and the more it progresses, the more Dean hates it, and he has trouble imagining all the nastiness with something as pure as snow surrounding them. He prefers to forget that shit-like color snow becomes once you step on it.

He just – he wants to see it with the boy sitting next to him, likes to hope that it’s reciprocated.

“Well, anyway,” Castiel changes the subject after Dean is silent for a bit. “This was a fun non-party.”

Dean smiles, secretly proud that Cas uses the term – Dean used it once on accident and the rest of them kind of took to it.

“Wanna go back to the pool?”

“Not really.”

“Let’s take a walk, then. My ass is just about to freeze off.”

Castiel is up on his feet within seconds, as if he’d been waiting for the invitation, and he reaches out with his hand, his fingers outstretched, to help Dean up.

Dean hesitates for a second, but then his fingers slide between Castiel’s and squeeze, cold skin against cold skin. Castiel’s palm wraps around Dean’s and he pulls him up to his feet, and it takes all of Dean to let go of the touch. He’s sorry that his palms are just ice – he could barely feel it, he’s left only with the idea of it.

“I hope you know your way around the property,” Castiel notes as they start walking east, distancing themselves from the house. “Because I feel like we could actually get lost here. What do Bela’s parents even do?”

“Yeah, don’t worry, I practically grew up here,” Dean reassures him before answering the question. “They are both management analysts or something like that. Have to travel a lot to meet new clients and stuff. When you compare that to what my dad does…”

“You love it, though, don’t you?” Castiel nudges him in the shoulder knowingly. In a way, it’s comforting to know that Castiel is starting to recognize this in Dean, but on the other hand, Dean wishes he could change it somehow, make himself and his future look brighter.

Dean resorts to shrugging. “I guess. It’s good work, rewarding in a way. And I’ve always liked cars.”

They go on talking like this; exchanging bits of information until they’re all a piece of yarn tied between them and pulling them closer together. Where Dean usually regrets opening up right afterwards, he feels like it’s natural with Cas, even though he keeps one secret hidden – the secret of _I like you_ , which he thinks would maybe be too much.

They’ve only walked up one side of the property when it starts raining, pin-like raindrops pelting their already freezing faces. Without uttering a word, they change their direction back towards the house, but somehow, as it goes, by the time they pick up pace and start jogging, they’re laughing at their own dumbness of venturing out in this weather at all.

Dean’s cheeks are as rosy as Cas’ in the mild light of the hallway.

“I’ll get that,” Dean says with a smile still spread across his face and takes the trenchcoat out of Cas’ hands, hanging it on its hook right next to his own jacket. They crouch next to each other to untie their shoes and their shoulders bump, causing them both to laugh again.

Cas finishes up sooner than Dean; by the time Dean kicks his shoes away and steps back, Castiel is leaning against the wall, and maybe it’s the sudden temperature change, cold to hot, that makes Dean dizzy and takes away everything except the basic need to be the one leaning against the wall, with Cas cornering him in, hands by the sides of his face, demanding a kiss to melt his frozen lips.

Dean shakes his head to get rid of the thought, small droplets of rain falling out of his hair and some rolling down his temples, making him shiver.

Laughter travels to them from where the girls are having fun in the pool and they both seem to wake up. Castiel unglues from the wall and nods his head towards where the noise is coming from. But to be honest, Dean isn’t very eager to get back there – for one, he doesn’t like the eerie lights that reflect on the water, but he also likes having Cas for himself.

“Hey,” he says out of nowhere, surprises even himself. His palms and tips of his ears are slowly warming up, to the point where it would hurt if you touched them. The flush on his cheeks is no longer chill-induced. His ‘hey’ is an empty one, but Cas tilts his head, _I’m listening_ clear on his face. “So, uh, Halloween is soon.”

“Yeah?” Castiel prompts.

(It’s not like he doesn’t know, the other day Charlie sat down with her lunch and said, “Guys, it’s exactly 157 hours till Halloween. Are you excited?” while looking at her Hulk watch. Also, hello, decorations everywhere.)

Dean forces out a laugh, feels the cold sweat covering his palms. He doesn’t even want to think about how this looks – he’s an idiot standing in the middle of a vaguely dark hallway trying to squeeze out something completely trivial.

“Well, the girls usually do their own thing so I went out with Sam every year, but I don’t think he’ll be interested in that now.”

“Maybe if you asked him…?” Castiel offers again, clearly confused but still eager to propose a solution.

Jesus Christ, Dean really does not know how to even exist sometimes. Or talk. Just, do this at all.

“No, I was thinking, maybe you could come over? We could watch old horror flicks or something and scare kids that come knockin’.” He even pulls a smile, but he’s pretty sure it looks exactly like if he wanted to scare some kids off already.

Castiel looks down and seems to smile to himself, just a slight quirk of his lips upwards; when he looks up it’s gone, hiding only in the shine of his eyes.

“I’d love to. I don’t care if we play freaking charades. It’ll be fun.”

 

///

 

The thing is, Castiel falls asleep around nine, halfway through Friday the 13th’s sequel (yes, even though it’s Halloween and not a Friday the 13th). To make things even worse, he dozes off while sprawled across Dean’s bed, one of his hands hanging loosely off it, his feet in dark blue socks peeking over the edge a bit as well.

Dean notices this around the time Castiel’s mouth goes slightly ajar, and he can’t stop looking. He follows the curve of Cas’ hand as it wraps in a fist just underneath his chin with his gaze, more intent than he probably should be, and spends long seconds trying to decipher the look on his face. Cas’ hair is as messy as ever, and his nose is starting to dig into Dean’s comforter, making his breaths more audible.

At a loss for what to do, Dean forces himself to keep watching the movie, even though his eyes tend to turn back to Cas sleeping on the bed with every other blink.

When Sam gets home a few minutes after that and opens the door to Dean’s room slightly to say hi, Dean even goes as far as motioning for Sam to shut up by pressing his finger against his lips.

Sam’s eyes open wide and he shakes his head, but leaves the room nonetheless.

Somehow, through the power of will, Dean, even though restless, sits through the rest of the movie. By the time the credits start rolling, Castiel has moved to his side and pulled his legs up on the bed in his sleep, curling himself up on Dean’s bed completely.

Dean knows, for sure, he is one hundred percent certain, that if he stays in the room any longer, he will end up curling himself around Castiel’s body, resting his chin on his shoulder or simply wrapping his arms around Castiel’s waist, and so he leaves, turning off the lights on his way out.

The kids have long stopped coming so he has nothing to do; he stops in the hallway and steals a few pieces of the leftover candy for himself, stuffing his pockets as well. All he’s got left to do is wander aimlessly through the house, but it’s not nearly as entertaining, or as lovely, as the sleeping boy in his bed, so eventually, not after a long time, he decides to retreat back to his room and just… deal with the situation like a man. A very frustrated, very awkward man.

“Not now,” he tells Sam when they meet as Dean’s on his way up and Sam’s on his way down, for whatever reason.

“Yeah, I saw you got sleeping beauty on your bed,” Sam snorts as he brushes past his brother and continues hopping down the stairs. It irks Dean, bites at him, makes him wonder yet again if he’s so obvious that even Castiel can see it.

He’s surprised when he gets back to his darkened room and finds Cas sitting up on his bed, rubbing at his eyes tiredly, cross-legged and seeming very small.

“I’m not sure how that happened,” he says apologetically and if his sleepy eyes weren’t proof enough, even his voice sounds lower than usual, still carrying a certain remnant of sleep, however short, in it.

Dean shrugs. “Don’t worry about it. Charlie is usually the only one who can suffer through these with me. Wanna watch something else?”

Castiel’s eyes dart across the room, the TV screen, still lit up, reflecting in his blue irises. Castiel’s profile, guarded in the somewhat white light of the television, looks serious. “I don’t know, maybe I’d fall asleep again.”

But Dean doesn’t want the ‘maybe we could just talk?’ again. Just this once, he doesn’t want his stomach to tie in a knot because he’s afraid he’ll say something stupid. He simply just wants to – he wants to –

“I’ll sit beside you and nudge your ass every time you start dozing off,” Dean offers in a small voice, and throws some of the candy he got downstairs Cas’ way.

“Okay,” Castiel agrees immediately, his sleepiness seemingly gone, and scoots on the bed to make space for Dean, right there beside him, in the spot that must still be warm from Cas’ body from when he curled up there.

Dean decides on the movie quickly – he just throws in the first disc that he can find, and it just so happens to be The Expendables; nothing spectacular.

He takes careful steps towards the bed, feeling as if the distance stretched on for miles and miles, but then he pretends to jump on it casually.

Dean doesn’t really know how it happens, but sometime during the movie, he notices that they’re pressed side by side, their bodies touching in more spots than just one.


	3. november

_lost in the pages of self-made cages_   
_life slips away and the ghosts come to play_   
_these are hard times_   
_these are hard time for dreams_

bones | msmr

 

 

The entire situation slips in a crooked way one unusually warm November morning.

Mornings usually go like this: Dean is in class talking to Bela or Charlie (or both) by the time Cas comes in and claims the seat next to them, having moved on from the ugly spot in the nerd row weeks ago. They chat, and then the class starts, barely a few minutes after.

This morning is unusual, because it goes like this: Sam has a crisis of oops-I-snoozed-my-alarm and Dean stays back because they usually walk to school together, for no particular reason.

So, that’s why Dean gets to school late, and that’s why he actually catches Cas by his locker, getting his stuff for the first few classes. He’s just about to walk up to him and share his disastrous morning experience, but he’s still a good few feet away from the lockers and so a group of jocks beats him to it.

He briefly sees Zach leading the group, walking up till he’s in Castiel’s face, his group of loyal dogs behind him (it’s all people from their class: Raphael, Michael, Gordon, and then one of the juniors, the only girl on the team – Dean is pretty sure her name is Ruby).

Dean stops dead in his tracks, unable to move or act, only capable of watching closely. He can’t see Cas over all the others surrounding him, but he feels small and terrified for him, even if he can’t see the precise expression on his face.

All he can see is broad shoulders with a certain attitude; one Dean doesn’t like. Other students avoid them even more than Dean, and he wonders, when the _fuck_ did this happen? They all used to be normal, right? Or was Dean just blind to it, because no one ever walked up to him or his friends like this? Is that possible – could he not have noticed?

The encounter happening just a few feet away from him only takes a minute or two, and Dean spends it trying to talk himself into moving, into stepping up and standing up for Cas, but his cowardice nails him on the spot and he can’t even take a simple step towards them. His knuckles grow white from where he’s holding onto the straps of his bag.

When the guys step back and leave Cas alone, throwing smirks over their shoulders like they’re the kings of the world, Dean is still standing there dumbly.

Castiel’s cheeks are flushed in a deep red and his eyes are wide, but Dean can’t tell whether it’s in anger or fear. His back is still pressed against the lockers and he’s staring after the group that just, Dean is mostly sure, harassed him somehow.

It’s only when Castiel finally regains his balance and stands up straight, looks around as if to see whether anyone noticed or not, that Dean finally snaps and starts moving towards him.

There’s a lump in his throat and a _sorry_ just on the tip of his tongue, and his knees are somewhat shaky as he crosses the hallway.

“What did they want?” he asks instead, angrily, forgetting his apology.

Castiel shrugs and actually turns his back to Dean, facing his locker instead. He opens it up and Dean can’t miss the tremble in his hands as he reaches in to take out his textbooks. “They just wanted to know whether I had a few bucks to lend them for cigarettes,” he answers eventually, quietly.

“That’s not how you ask someone to lend you money,” Dean presses, hating himself for it immediately when Castiel slams the locker closed, losing his temper momentarily. He still looks flushed when he turns back around to face Dean, and okay, now it’s clear that it’s actually anger.

“I told them that,” he informs Dean, “and I told them I don’t carry around change so they should bother someone else.”

Which, _okay_. That’s probably worse than if Dean actually had the balls to walk up to them and tell them to go fuck themselves. He’s not sure whether the dread reflects on his face, but he feels it settle deep in his bones, so much that it almost sends a shiver down his spine. He realizes that this is what worry tastes like, and it tastes bitter; it tastes like food long after its expiration date.

“I wonder what they said to that?”

“That they’ll catch me later and I’ll be sorry,” Castiel says, now not as quietly, probably in defiance.

“Cas, this is the kind of situation I meant when I said ‘if it got serious,’ you know?”

“It’s okay. They won’t do anything.”

And the first bell rings then, and Dean fumbles with his own words like an infant who’s just learned how to talk, so he doesn’t say anything. But the worry remains deep in his gut, and spreading throughout his body like a virus.

It radiates off of Castiel as well. Dean can feel it in his machine-like step as they make their way towards the classroom. It’s a wonder neither of their legs give out.

 

///

 

“But why would they even, like, pick _him_?” Dean whines, sitting down on Bela’s bed later that afternoon.

It’s just the two of them because Charlie is working and Dean actually wanted to have this talk, so he didn’t invite Cas over – even failing him like that hurts right now.

Bela is sitting cross-legged in her spinny chair by the table, toying with a pen, bumping it against her knee one way or another. For once, she’s paying close attention to what Dean is saying, and it doesn’t look like she’s got a mocking comment up her sleeve.

“I don’t know, Dean. He’s new, it’s exciting, maybe he’s easy to pick on… I’ve no clue. Is it really that bad?” she inquires, biting her bottom lip anxiously, her brow furrowed.

“They practically cornered him today, and asked for money. Told him that they’ll beat him up after he told them to piss off.”

“I knew they were assholes,” Bela muses, “but I never realized they were like _this_. He probably doesn’t want to tell anyone, huh?”

“I don’t think he does,” Dean sighs, shuffles on the bed and sits cross-legged as well. His fingers automatically find the hole in his jeans around his knee and tug at the loose fibers, pulling at the fabric. His eyes stick to that spot as well. “I couldn’t move. I couldn’t move at all, even though I knew I should help.”

“You would have gotten yourself in the same kind of trouble,” Bela tells him gently, but they both know that even if that was the case, it still doesn’t excuse what Dean did – or, well, didn’t do.

“That’s not it. I wanted to help him. I felt so wrong just standing there, watching it happen.”

“Dean,” Bela says and according to the lack of any noise, she’s stopped playing with the pen. “Do you actually… do you actually _like_ him?”

Dean finds it in him to look up and meet Bela’s stare. He’s pretty sure that his eyes give him away, after all, they always do – anything that doesn’t show on his face or that he can’t say always reflects in them, as his mother has told him countless times. But the point of this… the point of this is to actually say it.

He breathes in. “I actually do.” _And it’s a freakin’ problem_. But those words are just for him, he only says them inside his head, because admitting to it is bad enough.

Bela smiles, despite the situation. “I feel like I should call Charlie immediately to tell her, but this time, we actually didn’t bet on it because it was so obvious.”

“You’ve made bets about me before?” Dean asks, almost offended, but then he realizes that that’s not the important thing right now. He blinks, willing those thoughts to go away. “Don’t tell her right now, okay? I wanted to talk it out first.”

“What’s there to talk about?” Bela asks, obviously surprised. She moves on the chair, lets her legs down and moves towards the bed. She doesn’t touch Dean – she’s not big on hugs unless they’re Charlie-hugs. She simply steadies the chair in front of him and stares at him for a few seconds, inspecting his face, and then she hums softly. “You really don’t notice things, do you?”

“Can you save your insults for some other day?”

“Sorry, I forgot you're dealing with Gay Drama and your poor heart can't take much more than that,” she comments sarcastically. “Cas likes you.”

Dean shakes his head. “I don’t know. We’re friends.”

Bela rolls her eyes and leans back in the chair. Her hand goes up to her cleavage and she wraps her fingers around the black mineral hanging on her silver necklace, playing with it. “Whatever. Let’s not go through this right now. So you like him. What did you want to talk about?”

“It’s just that I,” Dean stops mid-sentence, opens and closes his mouth a few times before being able to keep going. “I don’t know what to do with the bullying and shit. It doesn’t feel right, it feels like shit.”

“First of all,” Bela says, looking at the wall somewhere above Dean’s head. “You need to stop acting like you’re the one being bullied. You’re not, and you don’t understand Cas’ point of view in this. Sure, it feels like shit because you like him and all that, but you’re still just a side character in all this.”

“But I want to help,” Dean says in a small voice, wide-eyed. He realizes that his heart is going too many miles per hour; this talk is certainly making him feel worse rather than better.

Bela’s eyes snap back to him, the mineral still squeezed in her hand. “But do you?” she questions him, and Dean doesn’t know what to say.

 

///

 

Midway through November, they’re all squeezed in Charlie’s room, which is really the dark, windowless basement of her house. Well, all of them except for Cas. They’re playing Heads Up, but one of them is not as into the game as he should be – Dean, of course. All he’s been doing is counting minutes ever since they got here because Cas is late and Cas is _never_ late, and there’s this ugly-ass thing tugging at Dean’s gut, telling him that maybe something’s wrong.

When the bell above their heads finally chimes, Dean nearly jumps and loses his focus completely, turning his head towards the stairs.

All he can hear is Charlie’s mom, talking at length about whatever; it seems to go on for minutes even though it’s probably barely a minute at all. The door to the basement opens up with a creak and Castiel (thank God he’s alright) thumps down the steps one by one. The girls are still talking at this point.

However, they fall silent mid-sentence the second Castiel comes into their sight, and even tries to smile, of all things. It doesn’t go very well – his bottom lip is cut open on its right side, and as it stretches in that fake smile, a big drop of blood appears that Cas quickly licks away. His face falls.

“What happened?” Dean asks, nearly breathless, frozen in his spot as always, even though all he wants to do is get up and take Castiel in his arms.

Castiel drops his school bag in the pile of the other ones in the corner of the room and without a word, he sits down with them, next to Dean. He’s looking at his hands like he’s never seen them before, maybe wondering how they could be instruments of violence at all.

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” he murmurs barely above a whisper, and even though he’s looking down, Dean registers the wince as Cas’ lips meet to form the words.

The girls look like they’re about to comply and grant Cas his wish, but Dean can’t do that.

“No. What happened?” he insists, turned to Cas, his face probably creased in worry that had taken him the second Castiel walked in.

Cas looks up then, and now it’s fear, not anger, written in his features, Dean can tell. He looks Dean right in the eyes, as if dissatisfied and just stubbornly deciding not to speak. It feels like the girls are no longer in the room – it’s just them and the look they’re exchanging, Dean’s begging and Castiel’s just… done. As tired as he was back in that park, all those weeks ago, except multiplied by at least a thousand.

Dean drops his eyes to Cas’ injured lip and for the first time, he doesn’t do so for his need of a kiss; he looks at the wound, incapable of believing that it’s real. And even though he doesn’t understand – Bela was right about that – it hurts him.

“Tell me,” he says, much more quietly now. Every muscle in his body is tense, as if he were worried that one of the guys, maybe even Zachariah the Leader himself, could still jump up from somewhere and attack. He _would_ move this time, he would tell them, show them, _he would move_.

Castiel sighs. “I forgot my phone in my locker, so I went back for it, and when I walked out of the school… you can probably figure out the rest. It was just the one punch, though. A really good one, I have to admit.”

Dean winces alongside Cas, and he wishes he could somehow be freaking Rapunzel and heal the wound with barely a touch. He would sing the stupid song without a second of hesitation.

“I hate them,” Dean says quietly.

“Yeah,” Charlie joins in, “Freaking assholes. We should get back at them. Maybe TP their houses.”

“Darling, we’re seniors in high school,” Bela reminds her gently, but then adds her coin in. “They shouldn’t have done that. You should tell your sister, Cas.”

“It’s okay,” Castiel insists, finally tearing his eyes away from Dean and looking at the others as well. “Maybe they’ll leave me be, now that they know I’m no fun.” But no one in the room really believes that.

They slowly go back to talking, though there's no Heads Up this time and the atmosphere never goes back to what it was before Castiel’s arrival.

There’s loud thumping in Dean’s head as all he can think about is how he wants to punch every single one of those boys with twice as much force as they used with Cas, but he knows he probably wouldn’t, that he definitely shouldn’t. Shouldn’t even want it, really. And once again, his thoughts run in other directions, stop him cold because, are there other kids coming from their school today with bruised faces? Is Cas really the only one?

As they settle into the conversation, Cas only piping up occasionally, even though Dean doesn’t think it’s because he doesn’t want to hurt his mouth (how much is his mind hurting?), Dean shuffles closer to him, an easy task to do in Charlie’s limited space. The basement is not large and the pillows scattered across the floor for them to sit on are close to each other.

No one says anything when Dean puts his arm around Cas’ shoulders, and as far as he knows, except for Bela’s knowing glance, no one even notices. Except for Cas, of course, who slowly relaxes into the touch and warms up Dean’s side in minutes, their position slipping into an embrace. Is this what friends do? Dean doesn’t know and he doesn’t care; he’s only a shadow, trying to protect the boy beside him, hoping it helps despite his helplessness.

They get up around five to leave, even Bela (there’s an English test they all have to study for), and gather around the door like a group of idiots that can’t leave separately.

It’s funny, but without agreeing on it beforehand, they all start up walking in the direction of Cas’ apartment building where he lives with Anna, and Castiel doesn’t comment on it. Once he disappears (after managing to dodge a question about whether he will tell his sister or not) with a smile that tears his lip open again, Bela and Dean are left alone.

“Want to come over and study together?” Bela suggests after a few steps, but Dean shakes his head.

“No, sorry. Wanna be alone, kind of,” he says, and the mantra of ‘I’m not the one being bullied, I’m overreacting’ fails to work spectacularly.

Bela’s fingers wrap around his arm suddenly and they stop in the middle of the sidewalk, causing a random jogger with headphones in her ears to almost bump into them. Dean mumbles a quick apology even though she can’t hear him and then steps to the side, where the grass has been slowly dying due to the increasing autumn cold. “What is it?”

“Listen,” Bela murmurs, her fingers still squeezing Dean’s elbow, her other hand lightly tugging at her necklace that’s barely visible underneath her brown leather jacket. “Come over on Saturday. I need to talk to you. I… might be able to help you.”

Dean raises his eyebrows, confused. “You could’ve just told me that at school, what are you fussin’ about?”

“I don’t want others to know. I don’t want Charlie to know. Just promise you’ll come over?” she prompts again, her voice insistent.

Dean nods, almost scared, before he can even realize he’s doing it.

 

///

 

The fact that Dean passes the test on the following day is really just luck. He doesn’t really know what it is leading his hand to make a little circle around (hopefully) the right answers, but somehow, it happens anyway. It sure isn’t his intelligence – not that he’s stupid, not at all, even though Sam is the one who got the real brains out of the two of them. No, he can be pretty brilliant himself; it’s just that he could barely focus on studying the night before.

Headphones in, he spent most of his night sitting behind his table, his notes open right in front of him, but none of the studying material really got all the way into his brain.

Wherever he looked – wherever he _looks_ even now, he isn’t really seeing his surroundings. Instead of that, he’s getting images of Cas beaten up, not just with the split lip; no, Dean sees cut up eyebrows, he sees bruises blooming against the mountaintops of bones, he sees bloody knuckles. They’re just images created by his worried brain, probably not even worse than what actually happened the day before, but Dean can’t get rid of them.

With his brain shoving all of these disturbing possibilities his way, he only really catches a few glimpses of reality: girls walking with their heads bowed, clutching their textbooks to their chests, as guys whistle after them; sophomore boys quietly handing juniors clutches of crumpled up dollars or bits of their food; crowds of students getting shoved against the lockers on their way to class.

In a way, this is even more gut-wrenching than seeing Cas in the situation, because it shows something that Dean was really scared of: that he was simply blind to it, refused to see it because he wasn’t involved.

But it’s been happening. Probably from their freshman year. Maybe someone cornered Zach and made him pay them or give them his food, and now he’s doing the same because that’s the only thing he knows. But Cas was right back then – it doesn’t change anything.

Dean idly helps a girl up after someone trips her (the oldest trick in the universe, Dean didn’t even think it worked anymore) and she lands on her knees, her books falling out of her arms and scattering across the dirty hallway floor. No one notices him helping her, although he still holds his breath in dread for a second, the reality of what he’s doing still feeling surreal and worrisome. The girl doesn’t thank him, just picks her things up in haste and brushes past him without even looking up at him.

He stands there, dumbfounded, for at least half a minute before he moves again.

“How did the test go? I’m pretty sure I effed up at least half the questions,” Charlie muses over lunch. The four of them are in their usual spot now in the music room, Cas sitting at their feet on the floor because he says that’s more comfortable than the couch.

Dean nods. “Yeah,” he replies, not at all aware of what they’re talking about or what the question actually was.

“Wow, if you answered the test in the same manner, good luck retaking the class or something.”

“Whatever,” Dean mumbles, rubbing at his face tiredly. He’s pointedly staring at the back of Cas’ neck, a strange itch tugging at his skin, as if something still weren't alright. It _isn’t_.

Castiel can probably sense the stare because after Dean’s reply, he turns around and looks up, seems to inspect Dean’s face in a moment of consideration. One corner of his mouth goes up then, the untouched, unwounded one, in a small grin. _I’m alright,_ it’s saying, and even though Dean doesn’t believe it, not for a second, he smiles back, _I’m glad_.

Bela hasn’t looked at him properly the whole day but she shoots a glance his way now, and suddenly there's too much attention directed at him – he realizes that he needs to compose himself, as soon as possible. She nods, and he shrugs.

He notices then that her necklace is missing, but for some reason, it feels like it wouldn’t be right to bring it up, point it out in any way.

Dean stays out of the conversation, at least not making an ass out of himself anymore, but he doesn’t miss the way Cas sits closer to him, his jeans nearly brushing the tips of Dean’s shoes. At least he’s close to him like this, even if it is in silence.

 

///

 

Waking up at nine on Saturdays is a rarity and Dean generally believes that it shouldn’t be legal at all, but his body seems to disagree that weekend. It’s probably the fact that he left his window open the previous night and the weather got even colder and woke him up, attacking his naked calves in sharp pings of almost painful chill, making him open his eyes with a shiver.

The first sound that escapes his mouth is a dissatisfied _ugh_ and he hugs the pillow, buries his nose in it as if trying to hide away from the cold. It doesn’t work, though.

He throws the comforter over his cold legs and arms, but as his limbs press together, they just seem to spread the chill all over his body. Irritated, he ends up sitting up after only a few minutes.

The comforter is scrunched up in his lap, but he doesn’t have it in him just yet to get up and close the window, so he checks his phone instead.

There’s one text from Bela, telling him to come over around one in the afternoon, and another one from Cas, telling him to _Check the horror channel, look what’s on tonight!_ Dean brings up Google on his phone and searches for it and a strange warmth settles in his chest when he sees that they’re streaming Friday the 13th around midnight. It almost feels like he could lie back down and the warmth would actually stay and envelop him tightly.

_aw, they’re giving you something to fall asleep to!_ he types quickly, and finally fights the war with his body and manages to roll out of bed, his feet dragging him slowly towards the window. He looks out briefly at the gloominess spreading over their heads in proper late-autumn weather and sighs. The walk over to Bela’s house won’t be a pleasant one, but maybe he can borrow his Dad’s car. Maybe.

Thing is, as if subconsciously, Dean doesn’t really want to meet with Bela today. It’s all somewhat strangely cryptic, _shady_ if he had to really use an appropriate word, and he doesn’t like it. Whatever she wants to tell him, it can’t be good – she’s making too much fuss over it for it to be something casual. He hates that they’re best friends; it means he will _have_ to go over, no matter how much he’d rather stay home, not even leave his room, and exchange quick texts with the boy he likes. Even though said boy doesn’t know that. It doesn’t matter. Dean knows, and it’s warm. No additional angst needed right now.

Just as he’s thinking that, his phones buzzes in his hand again and he can feel his face stretching in a very awake smile when he reads the text’s content.

_I’m afraid it wouldn’t work like that without you here. :(_

_that’s comforting, Cas ;)_

It takes a lot not to say, _should I come over?_ or something along those lines, but he does manage it somehow. With the window closed, he goes back over to his bed and flops down over the comforter even though his room is still cold as all hell. But, he’s determined to at least pretend that he’s still asleep.

The texting goes on and Dean lazily types away on his phone, feeling much more comfortable now simply talking to Cas, enjoying the fact that it’s not face to face and he can’t get distracted by stupid things, like Cas’ smile, lips, or just his face in general, if he’s completely honest with himself.

Turns out that where Dean is just an idiot who forgets to close his freaking window, Castiel is actually an early-morning sort of person, which probably explains why he dozed off back on Halloween even though Dean was still wide awake.

Soon enough, he can hear Sam and his parents talking down in the kitchen, and with a sigh, he gets up and throws on an already-worn black shirt and a pair of jeans.

_breakfast’s calling my name, gotta go, sorry_ he texts, adding appropriate food-oriented emojis to accompany the words.

_Unbelievable, you’d exchange my company for a bowl of food?_

_Cas, is that you being jealous?_

_Yes, because my sister is an asshole who doesn’t ever prepare breakfast. Bon appetite, Dean. :)_

Dean really, really wants to reply with something that would carry a clear double meaning, but he manages to stop his fingers before they get the chance to type away. Their texts already feel a lot like flirting, although Dean feels like maybe that’s just his wishful thinking. Leaving Cas hanging without a reply, he stuffs his phone into his jeans pocket and finally gets out of his room, just as it’s finally warmed up.

Their breakfasts are usually a disorganized mess where everyone gets up at a different time and eats at a different time, but it seems like every member of the family slept in today (except for Dean; at this point, it’s safe to assume that he was the first one to wake up, God dammit), because when he gets to their kitchen, Sam and Dad are still stuffing themselves with food.

Mary is, as always, up and about already, currently out to fix something out in the garden or maybe to just breathe in some fresh air; she does that, claiming it gives her energy, and Dean always thought it was, well, bullshit until Cas came along and said that he thought it was actually quite lovely and probably true. Somehow, nothing, not even Dean;s stupid opinion on something that his mother does, is the same now that Cas is here. It’s somewhat unsettling, but feels normal at the same time.

“Mornin’,” Dean mumbles even though he’s been awake for a good part of the past hour, and sits down between Sam and his Dad.

He takes one of the pieces of toast from the plate on the table (only three of them are left; he’s really late to the party, apparently) and takes a healthy bite, tasting the ham and cheese and humming in satisfactiont. Yup, this is exactly what he imagined he’d be getting.

“Garage today? We got an old car this week that needs some heavy work done. Chevrolet,” John says instead of a good morning and Dean instantly perks up.

“Model?” he asks with his mouth full before he even realizes that he’s not exactly free this afternoon and therefore can’t really help. “Wait, no – I promised Bela we’d hang out today, so I can’t.”

“She paying you like I would or what?” John jokes, smirking. There were times when John Winchester genuinely thought that later on in life he would find himself at Dean’s and Bela’s wedding, they spent so much time together as kids, and he even pulled a disappointed face when Bela officially came out as very much gay and brought Charlie over for the first time.

“Well, she _is_ wealthier than you, and she doesn’t even have a job yet,” Dean teases, earning himself a disapproving look. “But ask young Sammy here, I’m sure he’d love to help.”

“Yeah, no,” Sam pulls a face, kicking Dean in the shin under the table. “I can do without getting covered in oil and greasy stuff.”

John dramatically puts down the glass he’s been drinking from and leans back in his chair. “That’s it. You sure you’re not adopted?”

“Very funny.” Sam rolls his eyes and without another word goes back to his bowl of cereal, which, seriously, the whole adoption thing might actually be on point.

“Can I borrow your car today?” Dean speaks up again, grabbing another piece of toast from the plate, ready to eat it _fast_ to get that one still remaining too.

John considers Dean for a second and, knowing his son probably all too well, snags the last piece of toast. “Sure, but you’ll work one shift for free.”

“Jesus _Christ_ , what kind of regime is this?” Dean exclaims, but he knows full well that even though they may make this deal right now, John would never actually rob Dean of that little bit of money he gets from helping out at the garage, even if it’s only for a few hours here and there.

What he’s really referring to, and what he’s really mad about, is that freaking piece of toast. He really wanted that one.

 

///

 

Dean parks his Dad’s car in the spacious driveway in front of Bela’s house. It’s a few minutes past one and he doesn’t even have to bother with ringing the doorbell – Bela must have either seen or heard him because she opens the door wide, seconds after he gets there.

“Hey,” he greets her with a small smile, hands now buried in the pockets of his leather jacket.

Bela is dressed as if this was an official meeting. She’s got black pants on, their material probably fancier than any pair Dean has ever owned, and a royal blue shirt that seems to be silk. She’s wearing a thin caramel colored sweater over it, that seems to bring out the color of her hair and underline the brief smile she gives him.

“Come in,” she says, stepping back. She leads the way to the second floor of the house where her room is without uttering anything else, and Dean tails her obediently, shedding his jacket on the way.

She closes the door of her room even though they are, once again, alone in the house. If Dean’s correct, even though it’s difficult to keep track of this, this time, her parents are not away on a business matter, but rather a weekend for two.

Without prompting, Dean takes the spinny chair Bela occupied the last time he was here, and leans against her hard wooden table with one elbow. Their reversal becomes perfect when she takes his previous spot on the bed and crosses her legs. Her necklace is back in its spot, black as ever.

“Okay…” Dean starts and trails off when the silence between them stretches on for more than a minute and the most Bela’s done is clear her throat multiple times.

“So,” she says, but seems to get stuck, if her pursed lips are anything to go by. When she looks up, she looks almost hopeless, her eyes begging Dean to squeeze this out of her somehow.

The problem is that Dean has no idea what could come of this – all he knows is that she’s invited him over because she ‘might be able to help him’, but the whole set up seems weird as all hell. It makes him consider that that may have been just bait; what if she wanted him to come over to tell him that her family decided to move away once she’s graduated, or that she’s ill, or that there’s some relationship drama she needs to talk out? The possibilities are endless and the silence does nothing but encourage Dean to start panicking, make him stop thinking about why he’s really here.

“What’s all this about?” he snaps after all, feeling impatient to his very core. He realizes that he’s sitting on the edge of the chair as if awaiting really bad news instead of good ones, and tries to settle back into the soft cushion, to relax.

Bela looks down, her hazel hair falling like a curtain over her profile, hiding her worried look away. The first words she says are nothing but mumbles, but she finds it in her to start over again. “There’s something I want to tell you. It’s been going on for some time now.”

Dean just nods, urging her to go on, even though on the inside, he’s no clue what the hell is going on.

“When I was away on vacation this summer?” Bella tries again, “We went to this beach, and I met a woman there. Her name was Meg and we – ” Bela’s expression changes, the corners of her mouth fall. “We got talking, and eventually, she told me she was… Meg was a witch. A really good, really amazing witch.”

Dean laughs, but the noise sounds out of place, like sunshine in the middle of a thunderstorm. “What?”

“I know you don’t believe in it,” Bela continues, gulping, finding her necklace with her fingers again as if it actually offered help and safety. “But I always have, you know that. And she showed me things… incredible things, Dean.”

“Hold on, what are you even saying?”

“There’s a spell for nearly everything. There are books, there is just – so much of it, everywhere, without you all even realizing. Why do you think you got an A on that stupid test you didn’t even study for this week?”

“Because of witchcraft, obviously,” Dean comments, but his voice has a distinct pattern of sarcasm and the stubborn decision to simply not believe.

But Bela nods, and it’s worse than if she threw a mocking comment back at him or told him to shut up. She quietly accepts his disbelief and nods again, her eyes dropping to the stone hanging around her neck. “She gave me this. It’s just tourmaline, but she cast a spell on it. Just stupid girl stuff,” Bela laughs, but it’s muffled, as if she was really trying to silence tears. “So my skin looks good and my eyelashes look longer. But witchcraft can do so much more,” she finishes, looking up again and dropping her necklace to settle between her breasts.

Her look is full of anticipation, and the scary thing is, it’s not as easy to dismiss it. It’s how light Bela’s voice is despite the curtain of tricky tears; it’s how she carries the sentences, like they truly were the absolute, only truth, robbing Dean of any chance to not believe.

“Like what?” he hears himself say.

The house seems to be so very quiet, so quiet that it feels like maybe Bela can hear his beating heart without a problem. Maybe she _can_ ; Bela is not Bela right now, Bela is a weird, mythological being, the queen of the underworld, the spell caster. If there is such a thing... and looking at her, Dean feels like there just might be.

The smile Bela gives him is part intrigued, part satisfied. “I could help Cas, if I found the right spell.”

“Help him how?”

“There are spells for everything, Dean,” she repeats again. And she has never lied to him, so no matter how surreal this sounds, it must be true; Bela wouldn’t deceive him, there are boundaries she would not cross. She might not care about others but she respects them and Dean knows there’s a lot of value to the friendship they have, and it’s so terrifying to even think that she would trick him, it’s devastating.

“I don’t get it,” he murmurs.

“I don’t know yet. I haven’t found the right spell. But I will, if you want me to keep looking.” Her stare is a secret question, a request for permission, but Dean can’t appreciate it.

His mind is on fire, and he’s thinking hard, harder than he has in months, because it’s not just Castiel they’re talking about. It’s all the other kids being pushed and shoved around, always and forever and in an endless circle, and if Bela found something – if this was something Dean could believe in and rely upon, it wouldn’t be just Castiel they’d be helping.

Dean nods, the movement short and sharp. “Keep looking. But Bela, hey, you gotta explain this to me. You gotta tell me what this all means, because I’m really not… Five minutes ago I didn’t think this was real.”

“Do you want me to show you?” she asks quietly, her eyebrows raised. It’s almost as if she wasn’t expecting him to say yes, and she looks surprised when Dean actually nods determinedly.

Dean doesn’t understand the words she quickly utters; it could be Latin or some completely different, possibly dead language he’s never heard of.

The expected fireworks or the house rebuilding itself or whatever it was that Dean thought would happen never comes. Bela’s magic is not anything he can see; it’s what he _feels_.

For a few seconds, he feels genuinely happy, filled to the brim with nothing else but that. The single feeling overtakes him and he laughs, loudly and freely, looks around as if he was seeing the world for the very first time. The tips of his fingers tingle in anticipation, and Dean is one hundred percent sure that this is a pure feeling, as if stolen from a child on their first Christmas, or from a child hearing their mother talk for the first time. The emotion isn’t tainted by any of Dean’s experiences or other feelings. It’s as if it was made up of impenetrable matter, held still somewhere inside him.

But then the bubble pops and the feeling disappears, and Dean’s chest feels hollow. The happiness is gone like it was never there and he gasps; he almost feels pain, as pure as the emotion was, that goes right through him and squeezes him whole before letting go.

“That’s impossible,” he breathes out, his left palm pressed against his chest as if he were still searching for the feeling, eager to trap it like a firefly, ready to capture its light.

Bela’s smile is smug; she had regained her confidence while Dean was floating on the cloud of her magic. “As I said, there is still so much more. I hope you understand that it’s dangerous, though. I can’t manipulate feelings often. It’s trouble.”

“As long as you do it one more time when I’m on my deathbed,” Dean jokes.

“Look at you. You didn’t even think witchcraft like this existed in this world five minutes ago.”

“Does Charlie know about this at all?” he asks, dismissing her comment altogether.

“That’s why I said ‘I don’t want Charlie to know,’ obviously.”

“I know you don’t want me to preach, but you should tell her,” he suggests, but the glare she throws his way shuts him up effectively. It either means _it’s none of your business_ , or _I’ll tell her when the time is right, thank you very much_. Dean is not completely sure which.

“Should I keep looking for something to help your loverboy, then?” she asks, but Dean isn’t really hearing the question; he’s hearing the strange language of magic, remembering what followed right afterwards. It transformed his disbelief into something so much more; it made it feel like hope instead, and even though the realization is one hell of a mess that hits him in the chest, Dean can’t help but _believe_.

And he knows his answer, knows it without doubting it.

“Yeah,” he nods, “Please.”


	4. december

_well, here we are and where we came_  
_and it's a pretty sticky wicket, isn't it, dear_  
_a few mis-steps along the way_  
_but i'm really pretty happy to be here_

I 4 U & U 4 Me | the decemberists

 

 

“That’s just awful,” Dean comments and frowns when he sees the t-shirt Charlie has been hiding underneath her greenish coat. It’s a white shirt with Rudolph the Red-Nosed reindeer holding a gun and smoking a cigarette, saying hoe-hoe-hoe.

“It was either this or a shirt with a raven saying Poe-Poe-Poe and I didn’t want to risk people not getting my amazing sense of humor,” she shrugs, hanging the coat over her forearm.

The shopping mall they’re in is giant and way too warm even for December, and everywhere Dean looks, all he can see are stupid Christmas decorations, lights, tiny lit up arrows pointing towards Santas, and piles of fake presents trying to lure you in to shop here and there.

“Gah, I hate this business,” Charlie comments, and this is why they’re a team right now – Bela and Cas went off together a few minutes ago – because their enthusiasm for Christmas is all but non-existent. They both think it’s too loud and unnecessary. Dean loves his family and Charlie loves her mom just as much, and that’s not reserved for a one-time event at the end of the year. Neither of them really gets what the fuss is all about, plus the additional stress of buying the right presents is basically heart-crushing.

He sighs; the mall is filled with people on this Saturday afternoon, even though it’s still a few weeks until the holidays. “Where to?” he asks, at a loss himself, already unable to hear his own thoughts over the constant chatter of the crowds surrounding them.

Charlie looks around, biting her lip, and drags him over to a floorplan of the four-story shopping mall. She studies it for a bit while Dean doesn’t even bother to, then taps her fingers on the glass protecting the map.

“There are a few cheaper clothing stores on the second floor, so I suggest we go up there first. I want to buy Bela something not-fancy but fancy-looking. Then we can go wherever.”

Charlie turns out to be very pragmatic and practical when it comes to clothes shopping – maybe it’s her own disinterest in too-feminine clothing, but she navigates through the store efficiently, heading straight towards the seemingly right section.

The first store they venture into is a flop and they walk out five minutes later with their hands empty, but they hit gold with the second one.

“Which one?” Charlie asks, holding up two blouses with soft lacy patterns decorating the bottoms, and Dean repeats the question with two long-sleeved shirts with flowery prints, one of which he wants to buy for his mom. They each eventually settle on the (hopefully) right option and walk out of the store with their first bags – badges of success.

They stop at Sears where Dean buys a new small mechanics' tool set for his dad. It’s rather cheap but bound in a nice red box; John should appreciate the effort.

Their longest stop proves to be Hot Topic, where Charlie finds something for herself (apparently it wouldn’t be Christmas if she didn’t buy something for herself too), and a small Dragon Age figure for Bela. Dean buys Sam a too-large shirt with the Avengers on the front and then, after a quick emotional breakdown, he throws in a Gryffindor key chain for Cas. He has no clue whether Cas will have something for him, doesn’t even know if he’ll have it in him to give him the gift at all, but he can’t help but buy it, especially since it’s only a few bucks.

The next stop is the candy store that smells way too sweet, where they buy each other packs of mixed sweets to get it over with, exchanging the presents right away and smiling like they achieved great mischief by screwing up the Christmas morning tradition of opening presents.

They briefly spot Bela and Cas opposite them; they’re on their way out of Burger King and Bela waves at them, smiling. They’re not done yet, though; one last stop at the kitchenware store so Charlie can buy something for her mom, and _then_ they’re finally done.

They fall back into Burger King once they regroup on the first floor and everyone orders something as a reward for surviving this. Dean only now realizes that it’s taken them nearly two hours to get this done.

They sit the same way they went shopping – Bela next to Cas and Charlie next to Dean, with the girls facing each other and the boys doing the same. It almost feels like a double date – if only.

“You’ll love it,” Bela tells Charlie, and, resting her elbows on the table, she leans in closer with a smug smile on her face, stealing fries from Charlie’s plate.

“No, _you’ll_ love it,” Charlie counters and they stay still, staring at each other as if staring contests really were a thing, until they both burst out laughing and Charlie snags a fry right out of Bela’s hands and finishes it off.

“I got something for you,” Cas announces all of a sudden in a somewhat quiet voice, and Dean realizes that it’s only for him to hear – or, well, it’s supposed to be, but Bela hears him anyway. To Dean’s pleasant surprise, he doesn’t come up with anything to say quickly enough, so Bela jumps at her chance to comment on it.

“You’ll love it,” she says again, except this time it’s directed at Dean. She exchanges a quick smile with Cas and they nod at each other, and if Dean’s not mistaken, that’s a blush creeping its way onto Cas’ cheeks; brief and slight but still noticeable.

Dean smiles and drops his glance down to his food for a second. “Got something for you, too,” he says and looks up, and when Castiel’s lips spread in a smile Dean mirrors the expression and bites on his lip, willing his own blush to retreat and not make him look like a completely lost idiot.

Bela kicks him in the shin, then, gentle but harsh enough for Dean to feel it, and when he looks up confusedly she just rolls her eyes at him as if to tell him to wake up and finally do something about it.

They finish their food in cheerful conversation about Christmas – Charlie and Dean once again agreeing that the best thing about it is the long-awaited break from school and the fact that it means they’re nearly halfway through the school year – and Cas even steals some fries from Dean’s plate.

Dean wonders whether it’s subconscious, the way they have been mimicking Bela’s and Charlie’s small notes of affection for weeks now, or whether they’re fully aware of doing it.

 

///

 

During the second week of December, Castiel drops the whole trenchcoat act and shows up in a long, dark coat that goes down well past his knees. Not that he didn’t look good in the trenchcoat – somehow, he did – but this is nearly breathtaking. The mornings are gloomy and cold and somewhat grey, and when Cas shows up in a black coat, he stands out.

Dean sees him in vibrant colors – pink lips awfully kissable, dark brown hair still in the cold morning air, the coat moving around his legs as if in waves. He’s the most distinct thing that doesn’t get lost in the coldness of the winter.

He spots him right away out in the school yard after their last class. He jogs up to him, catching the heavy cotton of Cas’ coat between his fingers and stopping him.

Castiel startles badly, jerking and jumping away with a violent cringe. For a second, when he turns around to see the person who stopped him, he looks genuinely terrified, lips parted in fear, heavy clouds floating up from his mouth and partly hiding the rest of his expression.

When he realizes that it’s only Dean, his muscles relax and he stands up straight, his hands falling back by his sides once he pulls out his headphones. He smiles but his stretched lips cannot make Dean forget the horrified face he pulled just seconds ago.

“Someone spook you or somethin’? You alright?” Dean asks, his palm slipping down Castiel’s forearm, and he yearns for the touch of skin against skin, but instead it’s shirts and coats and gloves, layers of fabric separating them.

Castiel’s smile is unfaltering. “Sure. You just surprised me, that’s all.” Avoiding Dean’s eyes, he sets out walking again and Dean can do nothing but follow.

“I thought you finished up before me, did ya get detention again?”

Castiel shakes his head. “No. I just, uh – ”

He doesn’t have to finish – as they walk off school property, Zach and his band of dogs are standing just by the gate in a tight group, cigarette smoke enveloping them in a terribly smelly cloud.

“Did you stay behind to avoid them?” Dean says in a mumble so that they don’t hear it, and tries to guide Cas across the street to stay away from any kind of contact.

Castiel’s gaze is glued to the group even as they cross. “No. Yes. I’m not really sure.”

“Have they been following you around again?” Dean asks worriedly; it’s been better lately, or so he thought. Cas was always on time, there were no split lips or bloody mouths, and Dean hasn’t seen anyone approach Cas in a manner that wasn’t friendly. But he was blind once; it could have happened again – it probably had.

Castiel is silent again. The group has just noticed them, and even though they don’t want to bother and cross the street to physically engage, they start whistling.

“You think I could get your sister on all fours, Cassie?” one of them yells, probably Raphael, and a chant of woo’s comes from the group. “Bet she’d do me for free.”

Dean’s head snaps around to look at them without him even thinking about it first. He can’t believe what he’s hearing. The dread that comes over him is as cold as the merciless December weather, and it bites into him just as cruelly. He’s still looking when Gordon imitates slapping an imaginary someone’s (supposedly Anna’s) ass with force, biting his lip while he does so.

“That’s gross,” Dean breathes out as if on reflex, but he can’t bring himself to look away. He can’t believe – he can’t understand the laughing faces of the group as Castiel speeds up, vainly trying to get away from them as soon as possible. “What do they even want from you?”

Castiel laughs nervously, shrinking into himself, shoulders hunched like on that first day months ago. “Anna’s number. They figured that if I don’t want to play, they’d drag my sister into it.”

“Have you told her yet?” Dean presses, his brow still furrowed in worry and partial disgust. He’s managed to turn away from the now distant group, but his heart is still beating fast as if they were in some kind of danger, simply unsafe.

“Of course not. I can’t tell her. And I won’t be giving them her number, either.”

Dean bites his tongue to stop himself from pushing on; he remembers Bela.

She hasn’t updated him on anything yet, but Dean vividly remembers the afternoon they spent together when Bela told him – and showed him – what she could do. She seems like the beacon of light right now; he doesn’t have the words to tell Cas, but he knows that the bullies are playing a dangerous game now, one that Cas should get out of as soon as possible.

_You don’t understand his point of view_ , he tells himself; but he’s trying, hell, he’s trying his best. With a sigh, even though his mind is still going over it in obsessed cycles, he forces himself to let it go for now, makes a mental note to call Bela and ask her whether she’s found anything yet.

“What were you listening to?” he asks instead, conversationally, pointing to Cas’ headphones that are still hanging from the pocket of his coat.

“The Decemberists,” Castiel answers in a small voice.

“You’re a walking cliché,” Dean informs him and once again puts his arm across Cas’ shoulders; it’s something he does freely now, without being afraid of the consequences. “Wanna come over and hang out for a while?”

“That would be nice, Dean,” Castiel replies and looks up with a shy smile on his face, and Dean can’t help but wonder if he’s just the convenient escape from reality, or whether it really would be so nice.

It would, for him, but even with all the hints, sometimes it’s difficult to guess whether Cas feels the same; and Dean is not one to risk it. He’s too afraid, even though the possibility of being closer than just friends keeps eating at him, gnawing at him, like sharp claws trying to skin him alive.

 

///

 

One ugly tradition that comes with Christmas (as if this time of the year wasn’t annoying enough as it is) is that the teachers all think that a) their subject is the only one the students have to keep up with, and b) it’s healthy to have one giant homework and test overload just before the nicest break of the school year.

This year, it seems even worse than it has been in the years before; maybe it’s because it’s their senior year so the teachers are trying to get back at them for four years of ruining their nerves and hearts, but Dean barely has any free time left for anything but said homework.

His group of friends (which, he still thinks this, would be the _greatest-people-you’ll-ever-meet_ group, especially with Cas as their perfect addition – better than Lindsay Lohan if you ask him) barely even meets to hang out, they’re all so buried in their own things. Not even Bela’s spells, now that Dean knows about them, can fully remove the load of stress they have to put up with.

The last week before the break is the worst and Dean can barely focus on anything at this point. Because, really.

Things he would like to be doing: hanging out with his friends, especially Cas, just to have something actually good to look forward to this godforsaken winter.

Things he needs to be doing: actual stupid-ass homework that sucks him in so bad sometimes he doesn’t even notice he’s got a text from Cas (or someone else).

That’s not the only thing he doesn’t have the capacity to notice – things with Cas and the bullying squad seem to be a lot quieter, and in general too, but this time, Dean is more or less certain that it’s just him subconsciously trying not to see it. In the middle of assignments and papers he needs to write, he doesn’t even have time to bug Bela about the spell, or whatever it was she had in mind that could potentially fix the situation.

Dean’s going on his last drops of energy on that Thursday when Cas walks up to him just after the last class before lunch. He’s either figured out the secret of going at light speed or Dean is extremely slow and basically on the verge of dying (because how is it not the Christmas break yet) because he’s still just gathering his things when Castiel appears by his desk, bag over his shoulder and all, ready to go.

“I wanna die, basically,” Dean comments when he sees Castiel’s questioning look at Dean’s tired movements and general unwillingness to move, put his shit in his bag or simply pick it up. He’d be much happier if he could just lie down and _not_ move.

Castiel hums. “I was thinking that maybe you could postpone that a bit.”

“Noo,” Dean whines and with a sigh, finally shuts his bag close and gets up, throwing the strap over his shoulder and putting the notebook that didn’t make it in the bag in his free arm. “Why would I do that?”

“Well, I probably won’t see you that much over the Christmas break?” Castiel suggests, but he lays it down as a question because they both know it’s bullshit; their group or at least parts of it will probably hang out every other day, but Dean lets him continue. “So I was thinking, maybe you could come over? Sleepover, with a lucrative become-friends-with-a-teacher bonus.”

Dean has never been to Cas’ house; their routine as friends was always hanging out at Bela’s, Dean’s or Charlie’s and Cas never seemed too eager to break it, probably because he only had a small apartment to offer, one he shared with his sister, and it probably seemed like nothing to the houses the others were lucky enough to live in.

That being said, the word _sleepover_ doesn’t escape Dean either; it wouldn’t be a problem to do it, but Jesus Christ. Just the two of them (although maybe Dean’s just assuming that), probably sharing a room. The shiver that people describe as butterflies settles low in his stomach and tingles playfully, eager to be felt.

The tips of Dean’s ears are on fire when he nods. “I guess I could postpone the whole dying thing then. I mean, I’ve always wanted to be friends with a teacher. Lots of benefits.”

Castiel laughs, but he seems relieved, like he really doesn’t take offense in it, like he knows that Dean is really doing it for them getting to hang out, and he would be fine if Anna didn’t even exist. It feels like they both know that by now, but are somehow still scared to do something about it; it’s as if they were worried the thrill of the anticipation would wear off and they would be left with something hollow and empty, with the built-up tension now gone. Or maybe that’s wrong, maybe that’s just what Dean wants to believe so that he can keep not-doing-anything about this.

“That’s great!” Cas finally squeezes out, his voice still carried by the relieved laugh. “By the way, I’ll give you my Christmas present then, so, yeah. Just thought I’d let you know.”

Dean nods. “Thanks for the heads up. Lunch now?”

“Yes, lunch,” Castiel agrees and shoots Dean one last smile before turning around and leading the way towards the music room.

 

///

 

Dean walks out of his house when it’s already dark outside, but it’s not like he could get lost – the Christmas lights decorating every other house he passes together with the street lamps make it easy to see clearly, to know where he’s going.

His pajamas are heavy in his backpack, alongside with his toothbrush and, of course, the simple present for Cas, which could still turn out to be a complete flop.

Another thing that feels like a heavy burden on Dean’s shoulders are the looks literally every member of his family decided to throw his way as he was leaving – Sam snorted when Dean announced his sleepover over at Cas’ house, Mary actually said, “Be safe” as if he was off to see his freaking boyfriend, and John Winchester did the worst thing of them all – he just stared at Dean for a few long seconds, just considering him silently.

Dean can still feel those stares on him and even though he’s two blocks away from his house, it feels as if his family was still standing by the window and watching his every step.

This _is_ a big deal, Dean won’t pretend that it’s not, but he would very much like to keep that to himself.

He gets to Cas’ house only about two minutes after he was supposed to, and Castiel buzzes him in right away as if he was waiting by the freaking door.

The elevator in the building says that it’s out of order, and even though Cas’ apartment is only up on the second floor, it turns out that that’s still enough time for Dean to doubt all his life choices up to this point and regret buying that stupid Harry Potter keychain approximately three hundred and ninety four times. He should have picked something better.

His heart is a furiously beating monster residing in his throat, just about ready to fall out, by the time he knocks twice on the door that says 2b.

The response is immediate and the door opens, Castiel appearing in front of Dean with a shy smile, wearing jeans and that Gryffindor t-shirt he wore to school back in September, and okay, that calms Dean down at least a little bit.

“Come in,” Castiel says, still smiling, and Dean realizes that his entire face looks lit up, like Dean’s staring right into the sun, and he wonders whether it’s his presence here or the fact that he doesn’t have to hide from bullies in the safety of his home.

Dean was worried that he would get lost in his own town before finding the right apartment building, but he doesn’t have to worry about that now that he’s here – the apartment really is tiny, the walls an old faded white. The hallway is the opposite of spacious and Dean hits his back on the closet door twice as he’s shedding his coat and winter boots.

It’s got a lovely homely feel to it, though; it’s probably Anna who decorated the place, but there’s something in every room, be it a vase or a small antique statue or a painting on the wall, pictures here and there, that make the place feel truly well lived-in without looking messy.

As Castiel leads the way towards the living room, Dean realizes he’s actually not as calm as he perhaps hoped to be about meeting Cas’ sister. She’s more or less still closer to their age than to middle-aged couples, and it feels somewhat weird.

“Hey, Anna,” Cas says once they enter the living room, where Anna is sitting on the couch with her legs pulled up to her chest and a mug of something steamy in her hands, watching something on the TV. “This is Dean.”

She smiles, and she really is beautiful – he’s only seen her briefly in the school hallways, but her eyes compliment the brightness of her hair, so different from Cas’, and even though her face is deathly pale, the smile warms it up by a thousand degrees. She looks kind, if Dean had to pick a word.

She’s still a teacher, though, and still Cas’ legal guardian, so after the awkward wave he gives her, he honestly feels like punching himself in the face.

“Hey,” he mumbles through his clenched teeth, trying to focus on the situation instead of hating himself for making it embarrassing.

Anna lowers her legs and puts on her slippers, placing the mug on the coffee table in the middle of the room as she gets up. She actually bothers to cross the room and reach out her hand towards Dean.

“Very happy to meet you,” she says, and when Dean accepts her hand she shakes it a few times before letting go, tucking the loose locks of her hair behind her ear. “Please call me Anna, outside of school, of course.”

“Thanks, Ms. Novak,” he says before catching his mistake, after which he blinks repeatedly and shakes his head. “I mean, Anna. Very nice to meet you, too.”

She nods. “Go on, then,” she tells them both and without waiting for them to answer or add something, she turns her back on them and retreats to her previous seat, taking the exact same pose as before.

“She doesn’t know how to act around my friends,” Castiel explains once the door of his room closes and they find themselves in its privacy.

“I think she’s cool,” Dean shrugs, the backpack still thrown over his shoulder. Before getting rid of it, he looks around.

Castiel’s room is appropriately small for this apartment, definitely smaller than Dean’s. The walls are painted in dark blue, and above Castiel’s bed there is a big poster of Hubble Space Telescope pictures that covers nearly the entire ceiling. Otherwise, the walls are pretty empty, except for a lame picture of the map of the world and one Harry Potter related one that looks like the Marauders Map. Just, lots of maps.

There’s a small TV cramped into one of the corners, but no couch or bean bags. The table shoved right next to the bed is covered in probably school papers and a laptop sits awkwardly on the edge, half-closed. It looks very much like Cas, messy but in a somewhat organized way, and, yes, Dean knew this word would come up in his head, _nice_ and maybe possibly _warm_.

“This is real nice, Cas,” he comments, hoping that Castiel will understand it’s not just flattery.

“Eh, it’s what it is,” Castiel shrugs, then points to the bed. He seems to be full of energy, almost hyper. “Presents? To get it over with. But I also really love presents, so that’s why, too.”

“Uh, okay,” Dean agrees a bit hesitantly and drops his backpack to the ground, crouches down next to it. He has wrapped the keychain in a piece of Christmas wrapping paper that he stole from his mother’s room and it’s practically covered in tape.

“Let’s sit on the bed,” Castiel suggests and follows his own prompt, sitting cross-legged near where his pillow is stationed. Dean notices that there is a little something, about the same size as his present, lying on the nightstand just beside him.

With a tight throat, Dean nods and slowly maneuvers himself onto the bed, opposite Cas, cross-legged as well.

“You go first,” Castiel prompts again and actually rubs his palms against the sides of his legs excitedly. It’s obvious that he wants to fight the smile off his lips, but can’t do so; he’s been smirking since he sat down and it’s not going away, and Dean likes it.

Except, he’s really super worried it will go away once he actually opens the present.

“It’s really, uh, just a little something,” Dean says as he hands Cas the wrapped keychain, dropping his eyes and pointing to it. “Kinda lame, but uh, yeah.”

“Let me be the judge of that,” Castiel protests and his fingers start working the duct tape eagerly, getting it off in record time.

His reaction is probably even worse than Dean expected; Castiel laughs heartily once he gets to the keychain. Dean winces at the sound and basically damns it all to hell, his fists in balls placed on his knees. He frowns, ignoring the beating of his heart that has now sunk all the way to his stomach.

“That’s actually awesome,” Castiel says then, and wait, _what?_

“Oh?” Dean raises his eyebrow, completely confused now.

“Yeah. I love it. Very thoughtful. Please don’t think I’m laughing at it, just hold on,” Castiel explains and places the new Gryffindor keychain in his lap, reaching over to the nightstand to grab his gift for Dean.

When he hands it over, Dean can’t but notice that Cas’ wrapping is much nicer than Dean’s.

Dean wills the tremble in his fingers to go away as he rips the paper open and – oh, wow. He definitely gets the laugh now. What he’s holding in his hands is a keychain as well, and it’s a Harry Potter one too, except it’s not a Gryffindor one, it’s a Hufflepuff one.

“Oh,” Dean repeats dumbly and dropping the wrapping paper, he runs his fingers over the house logo, getting used to the colors. It’s neat and underwhelming at the same time – it’s good to know that Cas and he are obviously on the same wavelength, but he doesn’t know how to feel about the Hufflepuff part.

“You said you didn’t know what your house was,” Castiel starts.

Dean nods. “Hufflepuff is a solution to that, I guess.”

“No, don’t be like that,” Castiel quickly goes on, shuffling on the bed closer to Dean and taking the keychain out of his hands, looking down at it. “Hufflepuff people are amazing. Loyal and smart and passionate and always willing to help and stand up for their friends. That’s you, Dean. Hufflepuff is not just a group of people who don’t belong anywhere else.”

“You really think that?” Dean asks, eyes wide. “But smarties are in Ravenclaw.”

Castiel laughs. “People who _seek_ knowledge are in Ravenclaw. But you’re in Hufflepuff, because you’re intelligent without really seeking it. I think Hufflepuff is the house for you, but if you disagree, I’m sorry.”

“No,” Dean rushes to reply, grabbing the keychain back. “I think I just gotta get used to it. I’m – thank you,” he breathes out, unable to say _I’m glad you see me this way_.

The keychain is small in his hand as he wraps his fingers around it carefully, suddenly unwilling to let it go. They exchange a quick smile, and then Cas says ‘hold on’ and runs out of the room. Dean grabs his backpack and fishes out his keys, adding the keychain to it right away, only to find out that Cas actually ran off to fetch his own keys to do the same.

 

///

 

They spend the evening talking and watching random videos on YouTube, which proves to be a great source of fun and entertainment.

There are the casual touches, of course, but Dean is not even fully aware of them at this point; he enjoys them and sneaks some of his own into the mix, brushing his fingers against Cas’ when they both go for the touchpad, bumping their knees together. He steals a few smiles Castiel throws his away and stores them away as his and his only, and the evening goes by them in a rush.

Dean hasn’t checked the big digital clock on Castiel’s nightstand once and that’s why he’s actually taken aback when Castiel informs him that it’s close to midnight and they should probably at least try to get ready for bed.

“And then watch a movie, if you want to.”

Dean is supposed to take Cas’ bed, with Cas cuddling up in his sleeping bag on the floor next to him, but if Dean can steal more time sitting right next to him, he will; so he nods.

Castiel is the first one to go off to take a shower.

Dean stays in the room, afraid that if he ventured out he would run into Anna and another awkward conversation would take place. Castiel’s room feels like an abandoned island without Cas actually being there and Dean doesn’t leave the bed, as if he thought sharks would attack him if he tried to walk around the room. From his spot on the bed, Dean looks around at the bookshelves and a few action figures scattered across them, completely lost in thought.

Not even five minutes pass before Cas reenters the room with a giant smile plastered on his face, obviously not having showered yet. His hair is a bit messier than usual and the collar of his Gryffindor shirt sits on him askew, as if he had already taken it off when he decided to tail back.

“Guess what I just saw out of the bathroom window,” he says and the excitement in his voice is unmistakable.

“What?”

“It’s _snowing_ ,” Castiel exclaims and for a second, it looks like he might actually jump up and down in excitement.

Dean’s face stays scrunched up in confusion, mouth slightly agape, for a few more seconds before he realizes that oh, in moving from California, this is probably the first snow Cas has seen in, well, a pretty long time.

“Let’s go out,” Castiel suggests suddenly, his voice loud.

Dean moves, sits on the edge of the bed. “You serious?”

“Yeah. Please let’s go.”

Dean can’t help the smile that spreads on his own face; it’s been a long time since he wanted to make snowmen and play in the snow, long time since he was interested in it at all, but right now? Right now it sounds like the best idea in the world.

They dress in an almost feverish manner, quick to get on their coats and boots, as if afraid they will miss out on a few snowflakes if they don’t hurry up. Admittedly, the first snow of the year can feel a bit special.

“Where are you going this late?” Anna asks when they’re just about to walk out of the door, dressed in her pajamas and wearing a nightgown. Her voice almost sounds sleepy; she was probably on her way to bed when they decided to make all this racket.

“It’s snowing,” Castiel announces again, his face practically glowing. “Wanna come with?”

Anna smiles knowingly, as if she understands perfectly, but she shakes her head. “No. But you two go ahead. Just don’t be long, okay?”

“Of course,” Castiel reassures her and actually grabs Dean by the elbow to get him out of the apartment as soon as possible.

There’s no catching-snowflakes-on-your-tongue and similar shenanigans once they are outside. Castiel does look up and marvels at it for a few seconds, letting the snow land on his flushed face, but then he utters a quick ‘come on’ and leads Dean away, all the way around the building until they get to its back.

The place is somewhat spacious, with a few trees slowly fading away a few feet away from the back door, and there are a few benches to sit on. Dean had no idea such places could hide behind grey-looking apartment buildings; secluded and small, it looks almost as good as Bela’s amazing mile-big backyard. He’s still staring at the beauty of it, at the way the snow is starting to gather at their feet, when something hits him in the shoulder.

He turns around to see Castiel laugh and shrug his shoulders and, oh, so they’re doing an improvised snowball fight. Okay.

Neither of them are wearing gloves, probably because they are dumb and forgot to grab them on their hurried way out (just like they’re not wearing hats of any kind, the only thing protecting them the scarves wrapped around their necks), but he crouches down to gather some snow in his freezing hands anyway.

They chase each other around as the windows of the apartment building slowly turn dark as people go to sleep, until the glow of the snow and the light of the street lamp standing nearby is the only source of light there is.

Dean is running, just turning around to try and hit Cas with another snowball, when Castiel runs into him chest-first.

“Gotcha!” he yells, his hot breath hitting Dean’s ice-cold cheeks, and they both stumble and eventually fall to the ground. The snow keeps on falling, big snowflakes the size of Dean’s thumbnail slowly descending from the night sky. The matter already on the ground gives under the weight of their bodies, creaking pleasantly, and they both fall silent.

They can’t see each other properly – all Dean’s getting is the clouds of cold air ascending from Cas’ mouth, and he notices the dozens of snowflakes caught in his hair that looks raven-black in this light. Even on his eyelashes, there are some.

“Sorry,” Castiel breathes out then and promptly gets off Dean, offering him a hand to get up; which Dean, still dumbfounded, accepts.

They’re by the trees, unmoving, still standing opposite each other. Dean can’t really feel the cold now; he’s confused. Just seconds ago, it really looked like they were going to kiss, but something happened and then they didn’t and –

“Screw it,” Castiel says all of a sudden and then his palms are firmly pressed against Dean’s chest, strong enough so that Dean has to back away until he hits one of the trees with his shoulder blades. He almost slips on the snow, but somehow he manages to hold on to his balance.

Castiel is all up in Dean’s personal space after that and before Dean can protest, before he can get anything out of his mouth, Castiel is kissing him.

It feels, well, weird at first. Castiel’s face is about as cold as Dean’s and his freezing nose is digging into the cold-pink skin of Dean’s cheek.

It’s all weird angles and simple disorganized pressure of mouth against mouth, but then Dean finally manages to react. He relaxes and parts his lips slightly to feel the warmth of Castiel’s mouth, and he breathes out and into it, his body going limp. This is almost precisely his pressed-against-the-wall fantasy, except it feels better.

Dean’s fingers are wet from playing with the snow, and just as cold, but he brings them up to Cas’ face anyway. His thumbs brush against Cas’ scarf, snow-covered, and then land on his cheek. Castiel shivers but his lips are persistent, leaning against Dean’s with an angry urgency, pressing forward.

Dean whimpers softly, under his breath, when he feels the tip of Cas’ tongue taste the edges of his lips, but he opens up for it, and his eyes finally flutter close when Cas deepens the kiss. Almost dizzy, he realizes that Cas’ hands are resting over his hips, although he can barely feel them through the thick winter coat.

There are snowflakes still falling from the sky, icy and wet on Dean’s and Cas’ cheeks, in the crease between Dean’s thumb near Cas’ chin and Cas’ skin. Dean’s fingers slip down Castiel’s face eventually, rest somewhere near his neck, relaxed, but still holding the other boy close.

_Please, let this not end, ever_ , Dean thinks frantically after it’s been going on for over half a minute, but at the same time, he knows their feet are cold, and their hair slowly getting wet, and the night is deepening around them, becoming unsafe.

Castiel breaks the kiss, moves his hands back up onto Dean’s chest, hiding underneath the lapels of his coat.

A shiver runs cold and dangerous down Dean’s spine when the chilly winter air hits his flushed-red lips, wet and open and silently asking for more.

He’s staring, and he knows it. His eyes skim over Castiel’s face; starting at his mouth where a snowflake lands, small, and melts instantly in the warm leftovers of their kiss, then up his nose and all the way till they’re looking at each other, both wide-eyed and breathing heavily.

Should there be an apology involved, from either of them, from both of them? Or should they just kiss again? If you gave Dean the options, he would go for the latter; there’s not a part of him thinking reasonably, not a part of him that feels sorry, all he wants is to taste those lips again.

Cas looks like he might be considering an apology himself, but when he sees Dean still with his back against the tree, more than willing, he seems to decide against it.

“We should probably go back upstairs,” Castiel suggests after a few more seconds during which the cold gets to their skin and makes both of them start shivering. Dean can scarcely feel the tips of his fingers, but he’s somehow still holding on to Cas’ scarf.

That’s not right. Even if he’ll freeze here, just leaving the kiss behind is not right. It would freeze to death as well, in all this snow, and Dean is tired of constantly letting it go.

“Hold on,” he murmurs, and even as his lips press together as he forms the words, he is overly aware that Cas’ lips were there, not even a minute ago, warm and soft and nice and everything Dean wanted them to be.

Thing is, it’s bullshit when they tell you that reality is better than any of your fantasies or daydreams. The truth it, it’s tricky to get reality to feel at least _half_ as good as a daydream. Dean feels like this definitely classifies as more than successful. The trick has been performed and it worked splendidly. He’d mistake this moment for a daydream easily.

“Yes?” Castiel encourages him, and, honestly, he’s not really trying to go back inside himself; he’s still got his hands pressing against Dean’s chest, unfaltering.

“One more kiss,” Dean says, and feels courageous enough to try a smile; even though it’s a small, shy one, barely stretching his lips.

“One?”

“Don’t think I could do more than that in this cold,” Dean tells him.

Castiel leans in, as if that was all he was waiting for, and quickly presses his lips against Dean’s again, just over the corner of his mouth that went up with a smirk. Dean breathes in sharply, his grip over Cas’ scarf tightening; subconsciously, he pulls him closer.

It’s only a peck, except it lasts several seconds – and this time, when they pull apart, both of them are smiling. And Dean feels like a burden really has been taken off his chest.

They don’t hold hands on their way back up to the apartment; the night is perhaps too dark, and the snow keeps falling silently around them, and Dean lets Cas lead the way once again. They are quiet once they’re inside, except for when they get to Cas’ door. It’s a mutual agreement even though neither of them opens his mouth to discuss it beforehand; it just happens.

Standing opposite each other, this time without anything supporting Dean’s weight, they kiss again. It takes Dean a few seconds to close his eyes; the light in the hallway is mild but it’s enough for him to see the flutter of Cas’ eyelashes, and for a moment, he can’t stop looking.

They keep kissing until their ears and fingers start to warm up and sting at the sudden temperature change; they finally venture into the apartment after that, once again going back to stealth. They move around the apartment quietly and this time, when Cas goes off to take a shower, Dean simply lies down on the bed and breathes in; smells the vanilla, sees the galaxy stretch out up on the ceiling.

Does anything feel different? Dean is trying to put his finger on it, find the difference at all, but he comes up empty; he’s felt like this for months, just the smile comes more easily now.

“Good night,” Castiel whispers when he turns off the light about an hour laterand settles down on the floor in his sleeping bag, after having insisted that the bed really isn’t large enough for both of them (probably true).

“G’night,” Dean echoes.

A few minutes pass, and then Dean holds his breath and lets down his hand, leaving it hanging from the bed. It takes a bit, but eventually, Castiel notices and wraps his fingers around it, palms brushing against each other and settling.

They change their positions overnight, but the important thing is – the most important thing right now, to be honest – that they fall asleep like that, actually holding hands. Dean feels like the stupid keychains weren’t the actual present; this feels more like it, if he’s being totally honest with himself.

 


	5. january

_play me a song, your newest one_   
_please leave your taste on my tongue_   
_paperweight on my back_   
_cover me like a blanket_

paperweight | joshua radin

 

 

The shouts of Dean’s family are drowned out by the fireworks still making racket high up in the sky, and there’s a clichéd still on the TV screen with Times Square in the background welcoming the next year, supposedly better than the last one.

Dean is laughing at something Sam says, even though he still can’t hear half of it over the aforementioned fireworks; he feels good, though, he feels like laughing. He would undoubtedly feel better if there was a certain boy covering his face in butterfly kisses, but Cas always celebrates the New Year with Anna so neither of them is alone to ring in the new year, and Dean can do this with his family anyway.

He can definitely do with the memory of other butterfly kisses that have taken place in the last two weeks or so, during and after the sleepover. Half of his smile is just the dumb expression that settles over his face whenever he thinks back to it.

When his phone buzzes impatiently in his back pocket, he is way too lost in his new wow-I-have-a-boyfriend haze to even consider that it might not be Cas; he is double as surprised when he sees it’s actually Bela texting him.

His brain’s first reflex is, of course, that something went wrong; they don’t text each other on Christmas and New Years to wish each other happy holidays, there’s no point in it.

_I might have found something_ , the text says, short and straight to the point.

Without any context, Dean has trouble recognizing the meaning behind it. He frowns at the dimmed screen of his phone and it takes him a second to realize what Bela is on about. It has been way too easy to forget about school and everything (bad things like stupid bullying included), it has completely escaped his thoughts in the past few days.

It comes back to him now, though, and once that happens, he swallows dry and reads the text again. The conversation he had with Bela seems to have happened ages ago, pre-Cas even though he was very much lost in him at that point, but now he remembers it in detail.

Dean looks up from his phone and sees his family still in the somewhat joyful moment of the post-midnight time, even though it’s nearly half an hour after now. And the fireworks are still going strong. Mary is sitting in John’s lap, something Dean rarely sees as they are affectionate around each other but still tend to keep their distance, and Sam is sitting down on the floor and telling some disturbing story about a boy who lost his hand due to an incorrectly flamed firework. And they are still laughing, because that’s what people mindlessly do on New Years. Dean is suddenly not a part of it.

“’Scuse me,” he murmurs and gets up from where he’d been sitting on the couch. The only one who really notices is his mom, who smiles and nods at him in permission.

Dean’s walk is brisk as he escapes to the hallway and throws on his coat, slips on his converse. The snow has melted days before and even though it’s still cold as hell outside, his feet probably won’t get wet.

He needs to get out, he feels; as if the privacy of his room wasn’t safe enough for this, as if any member of his family could still overhear this conversation.

Dean walks outside of the house, blinking a few times as the fireworks get to him in full force and reflect in colorful patterns on his freckled face. He dials Bela’s number right away, walking down their driveway to take a quick walk, their neighbor with his kid daughter waving at him and wishing a happy New Year as he walks past their lawn.

Bela picks up on the fourth ring, which is three rings too many; it’s enough to make the fireworks die out a bit, but also enough to make Dean regret the whole converse decision, and make him shiver with sudden anxiety.

“What’s the matter?” Bela asks instead of saying hello, sounding almost annoyed – as if she didn’t just text him about _that thing_ that Dean still can’t believe is real.

He laughs, his free hand stuffed in his pocket firmly to protect at least that small part of him from the night’s chill. “Well, you texted me, that’s what.”

Fuck, and his family probably thinks he’s calling his boyfriend. There have been comments after the sleepover, and Dean didn’t exactly tell them off.

“So? I just wanted to keep you updated, not receive frantic phone calls after midnight.”

“Oh shut up. You were already doing research on freaking New Years,” Dean says without thinking about it, but his tone is mild and he knows she wouldn’t take it personally anyway. “Except, tell me more. What did you find? Some… spell?”

“Yeah,” she answers, and as the fireworks die out altogether, he can hear papers ruffling in the background of the call. You probably can’t find shit like this online. “There is a spell that could… somewhat help.”

“ _Somewhat_? I thought magic was, I dunno, a precise art or something like that,” Dean counters, trying to shush the part of him that is in no way okay with how this sounds.

“It is,” Bela corrects him, _definitely_ annoyed. “What I’m saying is that it’s not like the Polyjuice potion in Harry Potter, okay? I’ll have to study on this and it’s for one person only, and I’m not thinking Zach and the other guys.”

“You’re just confusing me now,” Dean complains.

“I don’t want to discuss this over phone. Besides, I don’t have all the details yet, as I said, I need to study on this, properly. And it doesn’t exactly stop the bullies. Whoever gets the spell done just… okay, don’t laugh.”

“Oh, you know me.”

“Well, I told you that magic could do just about everything, but even like that, it’s limited. The only thing I managed to find is a spell that enhances your strength. Were you to get it done, it wouldn’t change you into Hulk, exactly, but you would definitely be _a lot_ stronger. And braver, and all that comes with it.”

“Isn’t there like a freakin’ protection charm for Cas and the other kids who are getting bullied or something? This sounds like… I don’t know. Doesn’t sound right.”

He can practically see the eye-roll. “Protection charms are good, but they’re actually not very permanent and I doubt they would be able to protect anyone from non-physical bullying.”

“And you can’t manipulate emotions because it’s dangerous,” Dean says, reaching the corner of his street and turning on his heels to walk toward home.

“Yes, exactly. This spell, however, could make you stronger. You could overpower them easily or give them a real good scare, keep them away that way.”

“I don’t like it, but I’ll do it,” Dean says, without even thinking about it. It’s not a question who would get the spell done; of course it would be Dean. He wants to do it, not just because he wants to help Cas; really, because he wants to help all of them. He knows, though, a small part of him knows, that maybe he shouldn’t, maybe he should – “Maybe I should let Cas do it,” he adds after a few seconds in deep thought.

The houses he walks by, still lit up with Christmas lights except they don’t look very cheerful to him now, pass in a blur.

Bela hums. “I don’t want Castiel to know,” she explains and Dean comes to a halt, stops walking briefly. “He’s a great guy and I love him, but I don’t know him well enough. In wrong hands, Dean? This spell could go Armageddon. I know you just want to help, I know you’re not vicious, God, I’ve known you since you were a very rude toddler, basically. And I know I can trust you. Cas, though? Maybe if this happened in a few years, but I can’t…”

“You just don’t want the others to know you’re a witch,” Dean cuts her off, surprised by it himself, but then again, he knows it to be the truth, however surreal it sounds to him. Bela sounds like a completely new, unfamiliar person.

“A _good_ witch,” she corrects him. “But yes, that’s technically it. I haven’t even told Charlie yet. We don’t exactly go out waving flags and banners. Witchcraft and being a part of it is a secret.”

Dean sighs; it’s the first ‘we’ from Bela’s mouth that he doesn’t understand. But just like she knows she can trust him, he knows he can trust her – and it’s not like people stay the same forever. Bela is perhaps just lucky enough to get to do _this_ instead of some other lame hobby people sometimes pick up for no good reason. At least this _helps_ , at least that’s what Bela wants to do. At least it’s not black magic.

Another sigh. “Okay. Just let me know when you have more of it, so you can actually, y’know, _tell_ me more about it.”

“Sure thing, Dean,” she laughs, ending the conversation.

Dean slowly retreats back to his house and silently slips into his room, and despite himself, types out a quick, rather stupid message to Cas, telling him it would be nice if they could cuddle up right now and ignore the cold.

_I like the cold, and the winter here. And I like it when it snows. Cuddling sounds nice, though. :)_ Cas texts back in mindless rambling, probably sleepy as all hell, so Dean lets it go, thinking of other snowy nights instead.

So his year doesn’t really begin _dramatically_ , or romantically, but at least it’s somewhat interesting, even if his brother won’t shut up despite the big 1:00 lit up on Dean’s digital clock.

 

///

 

Dean and Cas get to the music room first on the first day of school. Everyone seems to be a walking corpse right now except for the two of them; getting to spend basically the entire day together, even though it’s in school, is a pretty good energy drink replacement apparently.

Dean’s got his head resting on Cas’ shoulder as he recites all the facts he knows about the Battle of Marathon before he sighs, gets stuck mid-sentence and just groans. “I hate history. Why did I choose history?”

“Because you secretly love it, and have a really good memory for dates,” Castiel answers patiently. Sitting cross-legged, their interlaced fingers rest on Cas’ thigh, slow thumb-brushing going on here and there. “Go on, you got almost all of it.”

Dean sighs, rubbing his face on the fabric of Castiel’s long-sleeved black t-shirt. “That’s all I’ve got, man. Nothing else in my head.”

Castiel reaches out with the hand Dean isn’t squishing with his weight and runs his fingers through Dean’s hair. “Still a beautiful head,” he comments, and Dean’s glad that the world can’t see his face right now because the blush that creeps onto it is almost scary.

He smiles into Cas’ shirt and stays there unmoving, thinking, _this is it_. Now, in the aftermath, he is incredibly happy that they tiptoed around each other for such a long time, took the effort to just be friends at first, because now this feels as simple as breathing air. No awkward situations, no pondering over whether it would be appropriate to touch each other, to look at each other in the way couples sometimes do.

This feels as good as sand between your toes after a long winter, as good as all the best things Dean has ever tasted, and none of it is forced. They simply are, using the way they had learned to exist around each other, making the experience better with the reciprocated affection.

“Aw, look at them,” comes a voice then and Dean quickly sits up straight, hoping that his blush has had enough time to calm down at least a little. “What lovebirds.”

“I almost want to play a Beatles song just for them,” Charlie agrees with her girlfriend as the door to the music room closes behind them, and mimics playing a piano. “Which one would you like? All My Loving? All You Need Is Love? You can pick because you’re so disgusting it’s clear you’re new to this.”

“Are you saying we’re not disgustingly cute?” Bela asks, crossing her hands across her chest and blinking a few times. Honestly, this time, Dean’s just glad for the distraction so he can compose himself and move into a more normal position, although still sitting close to Cas with their shoulders brushing.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Charlie turn to Bela and say something to her quietly, and then rubbing their noses together briefly in an eskimo kiss before turning back towards the boys.

“Can you actually play the piano?” Castiel wonders out loud while Dean presses himself into his side a little more, just to get to his warmth and feel closer.

“Duh,” Charlie rolls her eyes, “Someone’s gotta know how to play something so the teacher doesn’t kick us out all the time, smart-ass. And I reckon it’s not one of you guys, so.” Charlie cracks her knuckles in emphasis, making Bela cringe.

“Could you play All My Loving, then?” Castiel requests and Dean next to him laughs, because how is this guy even real, requesting Beatles songs and not understanding the mockery in the original offer?

Charlie laughs as well, flopping down on the couch next to Dean. “I was just kidding, Cas. I’m weird but I’ll do without embarrassing myself further,” she tells him and exchanges a quick wave with the music teacher that’s huddled up in her office, only half-paying attention to what’s actually going on .

“That hurts,” Castiel says jokingly, but Dean can tell that it didn’t exactly lift his spirits.

He nudges him in the side. “I’ll sing it to you some day.”

“Don’t let him do that,” Bela interrupts, dragging the chair from behind the piano towards the couch so she won’t have to sit on the floor, even though the carpet is pretty soft. “Dean can’t sing. _That_ would hurt.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “You know what, Dean,” he says, “I wouldn’t mind if you just started singing right now so the girls can hear it, too.”

There are _Ews_ and _Stops_ coming from the girls and they all start laughing, but Dean is aware of two things: one, that the mockery of his singing is completely in place, and two, he wouldn’t mind the embarrassment at all if he got to sing the stupid Beatles love song one night, or perhaps hum it into Cas’ skin.

 

///

 

Bela sets the date for Dean’s birthday, out of all available days in January. It falls on a Sunday, so at least that’s a bit convenient.

January itself drags on and on like honey or cheese, whichever you prefer, and the days are mostly a blur. Dean counts them in his head at the end of each and that’s the only thing to go by.

His days are blissful moments spent at Cas’ or his house, and it doesn’t matter if they’re studying or doing homework or just hanging out, sometimes in the presence of this or that family member. It feels good, and it’s also a good way to count the days; today Cas bruised my neck and I bruised his; today I walked a few miles with him and they felt like mere feet because we were holding hands and the world felt right.

January 24th sneaks around eventually, though, and even though he gets a few nasty glances from his parents when he tells them he’ll be spending part of the afternoon with Bela instead of with them, ultimately they let him do his thing. It is his eighteenth birthday, after all, and it’s not like they don’t like her.

He gets to Bela’s with his stomach somewhat on water; they haven’t discussed this anymore since their new year’s conversation, and all Dean knows is that it’s a spell to, probably, make his muscles grow so he can play superhero and protect the school kids. Supernatural steroids or something like that. He hasn’t lost sight of _that_ , though; the bullying is still happening, it’s active.

Surprisingly, she leads him downstairs and into the basement, which Dean doesn’t think he’s ever actually seen as it was forbidden territory when they were kids and he didn’t dare to go in, not even when they played hide-and-seek.

What he sees there is definitely unexpected; the basement looks like it’s been turned into some sort of shisha bar with cushions everywhere and (indeed) good luck charms hanging from the walls, candles half-used standing on the floor, red and white and black and purple. There’s a round table sitting in the middle with a few items on it, perhaps the stuff they’ll need today; an old book, a glass, and a pouch filled with something. The wooden surface carries some writing that Dean cannot decipher; not from where he’s standing, and he doubts it’s in English anyway.

“Whoa,” he manages to get out as they descend the stairs.

Leading the way, Bela looks over her shoulder and gives him a smirk. “You didn’t think I would do this to my actual room, right?”

“I didn’t realize this would be a thing at all,” Dean admits, sitting down on one of the burgundy cushions with a weird golden pattern that Bela points him to. “Hope you’ll walk me through it first, because I’m still not exactly sure.”

Bela sighs. “Sure, darling. What do you want to know? How many virgins you have to kill for the spell to work?”

Dean laughs, but it sounds unsure even to him; half of it gets stuck in his throat, stumbling over anxiety. “I won’t have to kill any virgins, right?”

Bela rolls her eyes. “No, dumbass.”

She sits opposite him, shuffling awkwardly a few times before the cushion gets as adjusted as she wants. She crosses her legs and when Dean looks at her, he notices that there’s a strange aura around her that he’s never seen before, as if existing around all these items, so obviously having been touched by magic, made them react to her and want to protect her from the world.

“The worst you’ll have to do is shed a drop of blood.”

Dean cringes. “What’s that good for?”

“It’s how magic works, it’s how it ties itself to you,” she explains patiently, and it’s only now that Dean sees the small but probably deadly sharp knife with a wooden handle lying on the table next to the rest of the objects.

“Tell me what the spell does,” he insists, because that’s really the important part of this; once he knows it’s worth it, cutting into his flesh won’t be that big of a problem, he’s sure.

Bela nods. “Once it’s done, it will make you stronger. Not visibly, though. Magic works its way through your veins and pumps you up. So, say, the spell is done and you see someone beating up some guy into a pulp; you’ll be able to walk up to them and shove them away without much trouble.”

“So it makes you a personal bodyguard,” Dean comments but it sounds about as fake as his laugh before. His palms, soundly resting against his sides, are getting sweaty in anticipation and something that could perhaps be described as fear, even though it’s not exactly that.

“The magic recognizes your impulses,” Bela tells him, ignoring his remark, “You need to understand the magic is alive. It’s not an object. Even though it’s not a living breathing person, it _is_ alive. It will understand your reflexes and act accordingly.”

“So like, it will _know_ that I’m doing this so that I can help the kids?” Dean questions, eyebrow raised.

The shiver that used to settle in his stomach overcomes him again and rolls in waves throughout his body. It’s somewhat thrilling; and is it really selfish, to want to help, to use magic to achieve it? Dean doesn’t want to use it for bad things, and that’s enough, right?

“Shouldn’t Cas…” he starts again, but he knows he’s really talking over his own eagerness this time. Sitting in the mildly lit basement of Bela’s room, only inches parting him from being able to help, he is more than willing. He needs to save those kids; and Bela is right, maybe Cas would only settle his own problems, maybe then it would go wrong, but Dean has been blind for so long, it almost feels like it’s his own fault that there have been kids walking around scared for their life for too long. He _needs_ to help, and surrounded with magic, he can finally admit it to himself; he needs this, to help. He needs to help, as simple as that.

And that’s all he wants, he has no interest in waving the magic around, using it every day. No. It’s just this one thing that he needs to fix, and then things will be fine.

“No,” Bela tells him, to answer him and to silent his mind.

“I know,” Dean nods, completely forgetting Bela’s own motive for keeping this from the rest of their group. “Once the thing is done, once the bullying stops, the magic will go away?”

“No,” Bela repeats, but she doesn’t seem to worry about it. “It will sleep, because you won’t need the strength anymore. Maybe it will fade out eventually, but not for years, if ever.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?”

“I told you that magic is dangerous,” Bela says, quiet. She drops her gaze for a second before recollecting herself. “But you want to help, right? You just need to decide if it’s worth it.”

Dean falls silent, running to his thoughts yet again. Is it worth it? He thinks back to all those moments where he saw someone corner a kid younger than them, weaker than then. He remembers the girl he helped up that wouldn’t even look him in the eye because she was too scared, he remembers the nasty comments from Zach’s group directed at Castiel’s sister, and he remembers Castiel himself. Hiding away with shoulders hunched, barely being able to crack a smile; he remembers the split lip, remembers the pain he experienced by proxy.

He is so, so very tired of being a side character in this. Perhaps it’s wrong, to want to help them all, but Dean knows he has to do something. Lots of people do, but not everyone gets their chance; he is getting it.

He nods. “Pretty sure it’s worth it,” he says and there’s no backing away from this, because with Bela, this is like giving his word and Dean wouldn’t take that back.

“Okay, sweetheart,” she murmurs, suddenly gentle with him. “Do you want to know the spell step by step?” she asks as if this was a business transfer and she wanted to be sure Dean knows what he’s buying.

Dean shakes his head stubbornly. “No. I trust ya.”

“Stand up, then,” she commands him and he jumps up to his feet.

Bela stands up as well, running her hands over her pants to smoothen them up, get rid of invisible, nonexistent dirt. She lights up the dark red candles standing on the table and uses the bowl to pour water into it, and throw in the herbs from the pouch. He still doesn’t know what those are, but it’s too late to ask; he’s not sure he wants to know, anyway. They smell nice, that’s all he knows, and the pleasant scent comforts him.

Bela takes the knife from the table, and picking up the bowl with one hand, she hands him the blade. “Make a cut, it doesn’t matter where. Be careful of the bowl, I need at least a drop.”

He does as he’s told, wincing when the sharp edge of the knife cuts through the soft skin of his thumb. The cut is mere inches long but stings all the same, and he has to squeeze the finger above the bowl to get the blood to drop. It disappears in the water and herbs, making the contents look a reddish pink.

She reaches out her hands, then. “Here,” she says and Dean understands, slipping his palms into hers, the remains of blood smudging against her palm.

They look at each other for a few numb seconds as if she was giving him one last chance to say he doesn’t actually want to do this, but Dean just squeezes the sides of Bela’s hands tightly and holds on.

“After I’m done with the spell, you need to drink what’s in the bowl. Understood?”

Dean’s eyes open wide; he did not see this coming. But he nods nonetheless, his breathing growing deeper and more apprehensive. “Understood.”

When Bela opens her mouth and starts reciting the formula, a strange unease spreads over Dean and he can feel small drops of sweat trailing down his forehead and tickling the sensitive skin of his temples. The language Bela is speaking in is not Latin; he wasn’t sure with the shorter spell she showed him over a month ago, but he is now. This doesn’t sound like anything Dean has ever heard.

Bela’s voice is low and her pace is quick, syllables that don’t make any sense leaving her mouth with ease. Her own forehead is glistening with sweat and her eyes are tightly shut, wrinkles appearing around her mouth and the corners of her eyes.

Then she stops talking and Dean is taken aback for a second; none of the spell seemed to work in sentences, it was more just like a stream of unknown, old, dead words, and he didn’t expect the sudden break to come. It feels like his bones are iron, heavy and rusted, but he breaks the contact with Bela with one of his hands and reaches for the bowl.

_Do it, now_ , his subconscious seems to say even though any voice usually echoing through his head has been dead all through the… ritual, Dean supposes he could call it that.

He throws the contents of the bowl in and down his throat, barely even noticing that during Bela’s spell-casting, the color turned into an iron-like reddish brown. He feels disgusting swallowing down his own blood, especially since the only thing he can taste is a strange metallic flavor that sits heavy on his taste buds and cools down the inside of his mouth as if he was really trying to force metal down his throat. The liquid still feels cold and he feels it run down all the way to his stomach and then spread until it reaches the very tips of his fingers and he shivers violently, nearly letting go of Bela’s other hand that he’s still clinging on to.

Then the shiver is gone, seems to fade out through the pores of his skin, and whatever took hold of him lets go of him now, and he stands there, almost limp, just staring.

Bela opens her eyes then and when Dean looks at her, he can see her eyes glowing with magic; _glowing_ , in the literal sense of the word, bright and dangerous and terrifying – and then she blinks it away, wills it to retreat to the spot inside her that is its residence. Dean can tell.

They’re still holding hands when she speaks. “How do you feel?”

Dean considers his answer for a second, but in the end, all his limbs are still there, and he feels just about as freaked out as he did before, only now he had a chance to drink it down with something.

“Not any different,” he answers truthfully and as they pull away from each other and he gets to move, take a step back and become fully aware of his body, it’s proved once again: nothing is different, everything feels exactly the same. Realizing this, he manages to talk his brain into calming down a bit.

“Good,” Bela nods. “You don’t have anything to react to right now, so that’s good. It worked, you’ll see.”

He can see it in the pleased smile on her face, even if he didn’t want to believe her words; Bela Talbot doesn’t half-ass anything, definitely not magic.

Bela puts out the candles with her own fingers, then, letting them hiss as the flame burns out. “Let’s go back up to my room, then,” she says casually.

Dean is dumbstruck for a second, can’t believe that this is it; he just had something done to him, something that will change him and his reactions for years if not forever, and the unease is still right there in his stomach. Yet Bela doesn’t seem to mind, doesn’t seem to see it as the big deal that it is to Dean. He _huhs_ to himself, but then again, he does still feel the same, and it’s not like there’s anything else to add. They’ll just have to wait and see what happens when Dean actually has to face one of the guys.

He shrugs it off, deciding not to think about it anymore, deciding to trust in it and in Bela’s word.

“Is my birthday present up in your room?”

Bela laughs. “ _That_ was your birthday present, darling,” she reminds him and, of course, he should have known that. Bela might be a witch now, but she’s still Bela.

 

///

 

A surprise awaits Dean that day when he gets home around four in the afternoon. It’s not the usual happy-birthday party where you open the door and a shitload of people starts screaming like maybe you’re trying to shoot them, with some balloons here and there, and it’s definitely not enough to make him _react_ and test his new bodyguard superpower, but it’s a surprise alright.

He shouts his usual “Hey guys!” when he gets inside the house and he can actually hear his parents talking as he takes off his winter coat and kicks off his boots, but, oh well. There’s also a third voice, and it’s not exactly Sam’s.

When Dean gets to the living room, aka the source of all the noise, they’re all there; John occupying the big old armchair, Sam the other, smaller and newer one, and Mary is sitting cross-legged on the couch with… well, with Cas sitting right next to her.

“Hey?” Dean says again, and they all turn their heads towards him.

He feels like he’s under close inspection for a few seconds as everyone in the room considers him. Will they be able to tell that he’s different than when he left the house? Will the change be visible to them? Can these people see right through him or is he safe?

And then Mary’s face splits in a smile and Dean finally breathes out in relief, whooshing away the sudden wave of panic that managed to overtake him.

“Hi,” Cas says, his greeting shortly followed by his parents’ and Sam’s mocking, “Hello there, birthday boy” (which, okay, he had a crush on Bela when he was about five but with Jessica Moore hanging out around their house half the time, he could lose the bitterness).

Dean takes a tentative step towards the living room. “Uh, if this is a birthday party, I would’ve thought more people would be ‘round.”

Castiel blushes slightly; at this point, probably only Dean can tell that the pinkish undertone to Cas’ cheeks is a blush. “I came over uninvited, really. I wanted to bring some apple pie over as a birthday gift of sorts, I didn’t know there was a gathering at Bela’s.” And if Dean’s not mistaken now, there’s bitterness in Cas’ face too; it’s disguised cleverly with the blush, but it’s still there. He probably thinks that Dean met up with both Charlie and Bela and just forgot to invite him; a rush of guilt falls over him and he mirrors Cas’ blush, for different reasons altogether.

“Yeah, no, there wasn’t,” Dean says quickly, running his hand over the back of his neck and scratching at it idly, looking briefly at both his parents for help even though he knows they can’t. “Bela just, ah, she just wanted to talk about stuff,” he squeezes out, and Jesus Christ, if he could slap himself, he would.

“Were there presents involved?” Castiel asks, but he seems to buy it, considering the beginnings of a smile that start to shape up on his face.

“Nah,” Dean shakes his head, remaining to stand awkwardly in the middle of the room, “You know she doesn’t believe in presents.”

“Which I think is a shame,” Mary chimes in and when Dean looks over to her, the amused expression on her face pains him. “Well, why don’t you boys go to your room for a bit?”

“You meant boy _friends_ ,” Sam comments and surprisingly, John is the one who laughs. Really, at this point, Dean’s just expecting the sex talk from one parent or the other. He’s never really labeled him and Cas as anything, but it’s pretty much public knowledge; Dean’s pretty sure Mary saw them kiss one morning when Cas came over to pick Dean up, just ‘cause.

“Very funny,” Dean grimaces at his younger brother.

“Seriously, go. We’ll celebrate our oldest son’s birthday, I don’t know, maybe next year?” John teases them with a smirk.

“Take the pie, Cas,” Dean prompts when Castiel gets up from the couch and is just about to join Dean and then walk off. “That little shit would eat all of it and I won’t have that,” he says, still looking at Sam.

When all three of them – Dean, Cas and the pie – are safely in Dean’s room, he closes the door. He’s expecting questions; he would probably ask some himself if the situation was reversed and his boyfriend disappeared on his birthday without letting him know. None come, though.

Castiel casually places the pie on the table just as Dean quickly takes the smelly shirt he had hanging over the doorknob and throws it in the general direction of his slowly growing pile of dirty clothes in the far corner of the room.

And then, Castiel is all over him. He takes Dean’s hips in his hands like he knows exactly where to press and how and moves both of them till Dean’s back is pressed against the wall just beside the door, over his _Empire Strikes Back_ poster with Leia and Han about to kiss. Castiel’s fingers wander up Dean’s sides quickly, resting on the sides of his neck, and Dean is still somewhat bewildered and surprised when he clashes their mouths together.

Dean breathes out, his hands still limp by his sides, but when he finally gets the hint that _oh_ , this is what’s happening now, his eyes flutter close and his own hands start to search every part of Castiel’s body he can reach; face, neck, the firmness of his chest heaving up and down in quick breaths as they go on kissing.

His mouth opens in the only invitation Castiel needs, and his fingers grasp the front of Castiel’s shirt when he feels his warm tongue slide over to his mouth. They’re body to body, only Dean’s hands slightly parting them, and it feels just like it, too; if you asked, Dean would only be able to tell you that the world is nothing but Castiel’s tongue between his lips, playful and demanding at the same time, existing in this little bubble.

Dean is painfully aware of the wall behind him, scraping his shoulder blades, and he’s almost worried he’ll tear the poster apart, but then heaven gets an upgrade: Castiel forces his knee between Dean’s thighs and settles there, their crotches only inches apart.

Dean gasps when Castiel pulls away and he chases those lips hungrily, desperate for more, his eyes still closed.

“Your parents are downstairs,” Castiel breathes and from the heat wave that hits Dean’s face he knows that Cas is still close, his mouth hovering right there, if only Dean could catch it.

“I don’t care,” he whines and moves forwards again but Castiel dodges, his mouth cruelly close and yet not available. They’re still pressed against each other and when Dean finally dares to open his eyes in the risk of the perfect bubble popping, he’s left staring right into Castiel’s bright blue ones.

He’s smiling, that fucker. “That’s all you’re getting, birthday boy,” Castiel announces, stealing Sam’s phrase.

Dean bites down on his lip and his eyes betray him when he subconsciously breaks the eye contact and his gaze drops, lingering on Castiel’s full lips. Dean wants to devour them, reclaim them, and he wants them to do the same to him; he bucks his hips against Castiel’s in a vain try to get him to do at least _something_ , but Castiel doesn’t budge.

“C’mon,” Dean breathes out, his hands finally letting go of the grip on Castiel’s shirt and roaming over his chest, grabbing his shoulders for a second to squeeze and try to pull him in, until they reach all the way up, to Castiel’s face.

Thumbs brushing idly over Castiel’s lips that he should be _kissing_ , dammit, not just caressing, Dean whines again low in his throat. Perhaps it’s just the anxiety from the spell finally wearing off, but he’s hyper and definitely turned on, and Castiel’s leg between his is definitely not helping him.

Castiel tilts his head but it’s so obvious he’s just teasing; he rests all of the weight of his waist on Dean, his hips and crotch pressed right against him as if he was too lazy to stand up straight.

He hums. “I haven’t figured out how to proceed yet,” he admits then, and Dean wants to mock him at first, but then he sees the sheepish, insecure smile on his face, the way he’s looking up at him even though he’s got Dean cornered like he’s the one waiting to be bossed around.

“Well, I mean,” Dean smiles, licking his lips, “I could think of somethin’.”

“Really?” Castiel asks and he frowns, pulling a few inches away.

Dean laughs, pulling Cas back in even though it means playing a dangerous game with their crotches being so close. “I just watched a load of porn back in my day,” he explains and Castiel’s face grows noticeably pink as he realizes that that’s the only experience Dean’s got on his hands.

“Oh,” he mumbles and now his eyes fall down to Dean’s lips. “I wonder what you learned?”

Life itself boils in Dean’s veins; maybe it’s the magic, he wants to believe that because if it’s that then it means that magic is good and it makes things easier, it boosts his confidence when he needs it, when there’s a beautiful boy squeezed right against him and he just wants to kiss him. Or, possibly, something more.

“I could show you?” he says but his voice fails it and delivers it as a question instead. “If you wanted?” he adds after a second, and now there’s not just life going through him, it’s a different kind of anxiety or fear now; what if Cas says no, what if he says _yes_?

Castiel seems to consider it, really takes too long with his answer, but with the way his body is hot and heavy against Dean’s, Dean should have known. The boy nods briefly. “Yes. Okay, yes, I want you. To show me.”

Dean is at a loss at that; he needed the permission, he needed to be asked, otherwise he doesn’t think he could have done anything but pout, but he still doesn’t know what to do next. He needs to lock the door, that’s for sure (so he does it right away after they untangle before his horny brain can distract him), but other than that, he’s coming up empty.

He can’t send Cas to get on the bed, he can’t force the words out; but he wants Cas to do it, and luckily, the same wavelength they’ve been operating on gets the message across.

Sitting on the bed, Castiel lets Dean slide in between his legs and place his hands on his thighs, looking up without a single word at first.

“Is this okay?” Dean asks over and over again; unzipping Castiel’s pants, pulling them down, getting rid of them, and asking yet again when he’s about to repeat the process with his boxer briefs.

“Do it,” Castiel says impatiently, and Dean finally snaps.

Now, finally having some direction, he wishes he _could_ will himself to do all the things he’s seen in porn; mouth sloppily at the outline of Cas’ cock through the fabric, cup it in his hand and palm it eagerly. The tips of his fingers are shaking, though, as they hook over the hem of the briefs and tug at them, willing them to give.

It takes him longer than it should to slowly drag the boxer briefs down Cas’ legs; he stares at his boyfriend’s thighs, calves, then ankles, intently stares even at the piece of fabric as he carelessly lets it lie by their feet – anything but looking up and, you know, actually _looking_.

But he does so, in the end. He does.

His mouth doesn’t exactly water.

The sight does, however, send a strange ping right to Dean’s crotch and he jerks; and now his eyes can’t leave the spot, and he’s left wishing that first times weren’t so awkward, wishes he could let himself go and touch Cas the way he wants to, the way he desires. He wants to run his hands up Castiel’s legs to tease him, but in reality, he can’t even muster up a smirk. Everything is strangely tense and Dean can feel his heart beating all around his body, throbbing in his dick. He wants to do _good_.

Dean is just about to ask if this is okay once more when Castiel spreads his legs in an invitation and all Dean can do is swallow and shuffle forward.

Almost shy, he spits down onto his palm and reaches out to wrap his fingers around the base of Cas’ cock. It’s just the right size, just the right everything, Dean feels somewhat relieved when it comes to rest in his hand. He gives it a squeeze to see what would happen and Castiel inhales sharply, his legs giving and stretching out.

Dean smiles, finally, and looks up as he twists his hand to the side a bit, running his thumb over the vein on the underside of Cas’ cock. “This good?” he mumbles.

“I’d say you’re doing fantastic,” Castiel breathes out with trouble, leaning back and on his hands to grant Dean more access.

Dean licks his lips before he closes them around the tip of Castiel’s dick. He hums at the sensation, and his eyes flutter closed.

He doesn’t really know what he’s doing; he has seen a lot of what the porn world offers, but experiencing this first-hand is completely different and new and (quite literally) breathtaking.

It’s all trial and error; before giving his jaw time to adjust, he goes too far and ends up gagging, his movements are jerky and surely not satisfying, and it takes him a few bobs up-and-down to figure out just how much teeth is enough teeth.

The thing is, he gets there eventually. He keeps supporting himself with one hand, resting it on Cas’ knee, the other still wrapped around the base of Cas’ cock and moving now and again.

“Dean,” Castiel groans and Dean squeezes his knee in response, both understanding and begging him to say more. His eyes shoot open and he looks up just as Castiel’s fingers come to his head, entangling in his hair shortly, tugging at it with force.

Dean groans around Castiel’s dick and, yes, the one thing he’s seen in porn he can’t help but do – his free hand leaves Cas’ knee and goes down to his own crotch where he rubs his dick through his pants, barely able to stay focused on Cas and what he’s doing there.

Cas comes when they establish eye contact and Dean lets him jerk his hips and shove his cock deeper into his mouth, gagging again and tearing up, but he’s glad he manages to blink the tears away; Castiel’s mouth opens in a shocked ‘o’ and he closes his eyes, blissed out, licking his lips absentmindedly.

Dean coughs when he goes to swallow but ultimately, he manages it.

By that time, his own erection is painful, creating a wet circle on his jeans, and he grips Cas’ thigh and rests his heavy head there, his feverishly hot forehead slipping over Cas’ sweaty, smooth skin.

“Can I – ” he starts but doesn’t know how to finish, uncertain whether he’s asking for permission or not or whether he even should do that. He feels dirty, shoving his hand into his boxers and finally getting his fingers around his cock, but he can’t hold back.

Instead of answering, Castiel cradles Dean’s face and makes him look up, kisses his filthy mouth just like he did when they entered the room, and when Dean comes rutting against his own hand and Cas’ leg, it’s with a soft high-pitched whimper that melts in Castiel’s mouth.

Coming in his jeans like a schoolboy, he thinks – but after all, that’s exactly what he is.

 

///

 

They’re lying opposite each other on Dean’s bed, both of them pant-less (although they at least bothered with putting their underwear back on, growing somewhat shy after their orgasms wore off and their lips hurt from kissing), when Castiel’s phone chimes.

He reaches for it absentmindedly but his expression grows serious when he reads the text; he frowns down at the brightly lit screen and his fingers tighten around the device.

Dean throws his arm over Castiel’s waist to pull him closer. “Please don’t tell me it’s Anna telling you to come home,” he mumbles lazily, his face mere inches from resting in the crook of Cas’ neck.

“No,” Castiel answers, not even a trace of amusement in his voice.

“Who is it then?” Dean asks, thinking that maybe their mom decided to contact them after all; that probably wouldn’t be the happiest moment.

“It’s…” Castiel trails off, closing his mouth again. He seems to go over his options, and after all decides on continuing on. “It’s the boys. The – You know.”

Dean perks up at that, surprised, and not in the good way. “How did they get your number?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel answers simply and after a second of hesitation, he hands Dean the phone.

He sees that the threats have stayed the same; it’s all about Anna, about how they got his number and that they’ll _get his sister’s too_ unless he gives it first. The phrase _fuck you up_ appears once, but Dean skips that text altogether, worrying that if he read all of it, he might just puke.

Dropping the phone, Dean takes Cas’ face in his hands. “I’ll protect you,” he says quietly, but even though the words carry a big meaning, Castiel probably only sees a vague promise that could never be delivered because Dean is not usually there when his phone beeps in the middle of the night, when they trip him in a class Dean’s not in, when they pat him on the back a bit too forcefully.

“You’re sweet,” is all he says before leaning in for a gentle kiss.

_I’ll protect you_ , Dean repeats, this time only his head. Something in his body moves in response to that, and for the first time in his life, he actually feels like he could.


	6. february

_do you like my cookies?_   
_they're made just for you_   
_a little bit of sugar_   
_but lots of poison too_

milk and cookies | melanie martinez

 

 

Dean is resting his head on his desk that Monday morning when Castiel finally gets to school and sinks down on the chair next to him. He doesn’t even register him at first; his eyes are closed, his forehead heavy on his forearm.

Probably approximately half a minute from falling asleep, he groans when there’s a nudge at his shoulder. It’s almost painful to open his eyes and start taking in the real world.

“Are you okay?” Castiel asks, concerned. He’s mirroring Dean’s position, head resting on his arms so they’re the same eye level. Dean smiles when he sees this, blinks lazily. What would it be like to actually wake up next to him like this every day, face to face, blinking sleep away together?

He sighs but nods. “Yeah. Just didn’t get a lot of sleep.”

“What did you stay up for this time? TV show, movie?” Castiel names, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. His teasing is playful, but it still sounds a lot like when his mother scolds him for staying up on school nights.

Shaking his head, Dean finally sits up and rubs his face tiredly, hoping that the outlines of his arm haven’t forced a red mark onto his face, even with a heavy head like his. “I actually went to bed like a normal human being this time.”

Castiel grins softly, his eyes sliding down Dean’s face and tracing his features; okay, so there probably is a red mark right where he rested it on his arm, but at least his boyfriend thinks it’s cute. “What’s the problem, then?”

“Had nightmares,” Dean explains and his brain surprises him when it offers a vivid flashback; no images or feelings, just loud, loud screaming right in the center of Dean’s head. He flinches slightly and quickly blinks the sensation away, focusing back on Castiel sitting next to him.

Castiel frowns, then, ruining the sweet expression on his face. “Did you eat something bad before sleep? Are you sure you’re okay?”

The last bell before class comes over Dean’s amused laugh. “I’m fine, Cas. It was just a nightmare, I’ve always had them,” he reassures him. “Seriously. Night terrors were involved when I was a kid.”

It’s not exactly true; Dean’s nightmares as a kid weren’t really nightmares, just the basic ‘Mom, I think there’s a monster under my bed’ stuff with his comforter pulled all the way to his five-year-old face, only his eyes visible. But it feels okay to say it; he doesn’t want Cas to worry, it’s not like he’s not used to getting barely any sleep when the weekend inevitably switches into another school week.

“If you say so,” Castiel sighs and finally stops paying such close attention to him, organizing his textbooks and his pencil case on his desk.

Ellen Harvelle walks into the classroom then, about as energetic as she was back in September, which Dean honestly doesn’t understand, and starts talking about Harper Lee and whatnot; Dean’s too tired to actually pay attention. The only thing he really registers is the paper assignment, although he doesn’t exactly catch when it’s due.

He’s practically falling asleep by his second class, and the fact that he doesn’t share it with a certain boy doesn’t help much.

As if Castiel, somewhere across the large school building, could sense this, Dean’s phone buzzes in his jeans pocket. They’re supposed to leave them in their lockers, just like Castiel did when he first got here, but they have gotten used to texting each other sometimes.

_Harry Potter marathon this Friday?_ The text says, without any sort of intro and Dean thinks, yes, this is how my boyfriend should be. Just freaking asking me out for a Harry Potter marathon – how did I get that lucky?

His lips curl in a smile without him really thinking about it. _only if there’s popcorn. and maybe nachos._

_Count on me. Pick which movies we’re watching._

_can’t we just watch all of them?_ Dean texts back, completely zoning out on the class and what’s going on there, the teacher’s voice only background noise, almost static-like. Bela beside him snickers at him when she notices, but the teacher himself has never been very bright when it comes to actually noticing his students.

_There are eight of them, Dean._

_that’s exactly my point._

And that’s when he realizes that they’re exactly like Bela and Charlie are, that they’re doing the very same thing he envied and therefore hated sometimes, teasing each other playfully, coaxing their partner into acting up, breaking the fake fight with a kiss.

Both of them are aware that if it’s a good night, they’ll maybe get three movies in before Castiel dozes off or they get distracted by each other, but Dean likes the idea and he likes fighting about it. God, he’ll be very lucky if they continue to Charlie-and-Bela their way through this, never having fights any more serious than this.

_You are terrible, but okay._

And Dean can just see it, the two of them letting Harry Potter babble about his teenage angst while they pay no attention to it, cuddled up in each other and eventually falling asleep.

He doesn’t text back, though, because he’s starting to get antsy about the teacher actually maybe noticing him, because miracles can happen (the fact that he gets to be with Cas a nice reminder of that). He’s awake now, though, so at least there’s that. He couldn’t care less about scream-filled nightmares.

 

///

 

Bringing up the Harry Potter marathon and therefore sleepover at Cas’ should be an easy enough task; or at least Dean thinks so when he gets back home that day and brings it up to Mary, interrupting her from her yoga session. (Which, honestly, since when is that a thing?)

They have the house to themselves; John is, as always, at the garage, and Sam is busy with his drama club and trying to impress Jess, probably.

Mary sits up on her yoga mat and Dean realizes, soon enough, that she’s just numbly staring at him.

Instead of giving him a clear answer, she tugs at the rubber band in her hair and loosens it up, lets it fall down to her shoulders. “Wait for me in the kitchen. We need to have a talk,” she informs him and before he can protest, she turns her back on him to roll the mat up and put it away.

“O…kay,” Dean mumbles and leaves the doorstep, retreating back to the kitchen. He desperately tries to find his chill on his way there, but by the time he sits down by the kitchen table, he realizes that he has _none_. Tapping his fingers nervously against the surface of the table, he anxiously waits for his mother to appear – ‘we need to have a talk’ is never a good thing when a parent utters those words.

Mary smiles, though, when she finally gets to the kitchen. She’s still wearing her soft yellow yoga shirt, but she’s changed into grey sweatpants, abandoning the ugly purple leggings. She must have brushed her hair, it looks fuller and softer. She ignores her son’s unease and before she sits down, she pours herself a tall glass of fresh lemonade.

“Want anything?” she asks him casually, and Dean murmurs a quick _nah_.

He watches her impatiently as she takes a long swig of the drink and then finally takes the seat opposite Dean. Her fingers wrap around the glass and when she finally looks up, it’s with a soft smile.

“Okay,” she says. “I think we need to establish something.”

“Okay?”

“Castiel is your boyfriend,” Mary says, matter-of-fact, obviously very sure. And yes, so Dean has never come out, never even informed his parents of this development, but he thought it was pretty clear and he didn’t need to ‘establish’ anything further.

“Well, yeah,” he mumbles when Mary seems to wait for confirmation.

She nods. “Well, I’m okay with that,” she tells him and Dean realizes that _oh_ , it’s really easy to forget and be blind once again that other people don’t get to have this. “And your dad is, too. But I think that we should talk rules.”

Dean’s brow furrows. “What rules?”

“Like maybe if you should have sleepovers with your boyfriend.”

“I’m eighteen,” Dean argues instantly, defending himself right away. His left hand is squeezed around the edge of the table, fingers digging in and knuckles turning snow-white from the pressure. He’s too late to realize that this is the sex talk he’s been so worried about, finally catching up to him in its weird tweaked variation. “You don’t think you can trust me?”

“I wanted to make sure,” Mary states calmly, but her gaze drops down towards her drink. First times are always awkward, Dean reminds himself. Sam probably won’t have to suffer through this.

“Well, you don’t have to worry or anythin’,” Dean says quickly, shaking his head, but there’s still a part of him that is not okay with the hint of accusation his mother has brought up. “Or are you saying that I can’t go and sleep over at his house?”

Mary looks up and seems to consider it. Dean half-expects a positive answer, a _yes that’s basically what I’m saying darling but honestly I still trust you but you just can’t spend time with him now sorry_ and the grip he has on the table grows. It’s only when the pressure is too much and it feels like the wood is starting to bend, even though that’s impossible, when he finally relaxes. This is his mom, for Christ’s sake. He can reason with her, even if she did want to stop him from doing this.

Mary shakes her head, though. “I just wanted to tease you,” she smirks. “You need to promise me to be safe and _not_ dumb, though. You know what I mean.”

Dean cringes but inevitably, his face flushes with embarrassment. “Christ, Mom. We’re not. We don’t. We just started dating, okay? We just wanna watch movies.” He shrugs to emphasize how much he doesn’t care even though he very much does, his heartbeat finally going back to normal.

“How is it?” Mary shoots then all of a sudden, completely changing the subject, seemingly satisfied with Dean’s rushed response.

“How’s what?”

“He’s your first boyfriend, right?” Mary asks, sipping on the lemonade casually, obviously taking great pleasure in tormenting her oldest son. “Cas is a very sweet boy.”

Rolling his eyes, Dean moves the chair and stands up. “I’m not talking to you ‘bout this,” he informs her, gesticulating wildly with his hand, absolutely hopeless. Even if he tried, he wouldn’t be able to fight off the blush on his face, which is probably answer enough.

“Well, that’s answer enough,” Mary echoes Dean’s own thoughts.

“I’m going to my room,” Dean mumbles, still nervous, nearly tripping over his own feet on his way to the stairs. “I might just move to Cas’ on Friday, his sister doesn’t terrorize me like this.”

“At least no one will interrupt me during yoga,” she tells him in a sweet voice and laughs when Dean rolls his eyes again, stomping up the stairs.

 

///

 

“But I don’t wanna,” Dean exclaims before going right back to Cas’ mouth, sucking on his bottom lip with vigor.

“Stop ruining, ah – ” Castiel breathes out before pulling away, starting over again, “Stop ruining our movie night.”

They’re on Cas’ bed, which hasn’t been too tiny for the two of them for a few weeks now – a lot has changed since that first sleepover where they shyly decided to sleep apart. The mattress on Cas’ bed is warm against Dean’s back, and, seriously, how is he ever expected to stop with Cas straddling his lips like that, palms flat on his chest? Not possible at all.

“But Anna’s not home,” Dean counters, giving up when Cas pulls away far enough for Dean not to be able to reach his mouth. His head falls back onto the pillow and his hands come to rest on Cas’ hips, to at least somehow keep him _there_ even if they’re not religiously making out.

Which, if you ask Dean, is exactly what they should be doing.

“She’ll be home any minute,” Castiel tells him for probably the sixth time. “I don’t want her to walk in on this.”

“Tell you what,” Dean smirks, “I say we wait for her with the movie. I’m sure she’d love to watch with us. Till she gets home, we can just… distract ourselves with something else.”

Castiel sighs, but it sounds more like a sigh of relief than exasperation. He leans back in and his thighs close around Dean’s sides; he presses one of his hands against the pulsing spot on Dean’s neck while the other goes up to ruffle his hair, tug at it playfully just like Dean likes it. “It’s true, though. You’re a terrible distraction,” Castiel tells him before he gives in and crosses the few inches still parting them, slides his tongue into Dean’s mouth without trouble, pulling a groan from Dean’s throat.

“Happy to be,” Dean mouths between kisses and his back arches when Cas grinds down into him; Dean, with his hands now running up and down Castiel’s arms and shoulder blades, can feel the smooth movement even there, the muscles bending underneath his fingers, and his hips buck back hopelessly, searching the friction even more.

Nothing comes from this, though, because even though they manage to get each other’s mouth puffed up with kissing, Anna does get home in about ten minutes, slamming the door behind her as if she knew she was entering a danger zone.

“Hey, boys!” she yells, and even her tone makes it very clear that she is now Anna, not Ms. Novak.

They gather in the living room eventually, after Cas and Dean get a hold of themselves and fix themselves up. The offer to watch the first Harry Potter movie goes over well, which is somewhat unexpected; Anna seems to be almost excited to just turn off and watch a dumb movie about wizards for the umpteenth time.

By the third movie, though, they’re back in Cas’ room, sitting on the floor and watching the Prisoner of Azkaban on the small laptop screen. Said laptop screen is currently the only source of light; Cas’ room is bathing in darkness and reaching for a drink or food is always a risk unless you’re smart (which Dean is and Cas isn’t, at least this once) and remember where you actually put them.

It’s only the start of the movie and Dean’s got his head resting on Cas’ shoulder comfortably as the darkened WB logo appears.

Dean probably couldn’t recite this movie back to front like he can with the first one, but he’s still more than familiar with the plot – among discovering this for himself, he remembers showing it to Sam as well and watching it together, reading it together..

Truth be told, though, Harry Potter has a whole new meaning ever since that Christmas present keychain extravaganza took place a few months back.

Aunt Marge is just commenting on Harry’s parents when Dean feels like something has fucked with the volume and it’s gone noticeably up. The only way to describe it is that she’s talking shit and Harry’s reacting to it and all the noise, her words and Harry’s and the background sounds, it is all way too loud in Dean’s head.

“Can you turn the volume down?” he asks quietly, and his voice sounds normal to him, not too loud or too quiet, it can’t be in his head then.

Castiel shuffles and Dean pulls away. “Sure,” the boy says and reaches out for his laptop, pressing long on one of the buttons. “Are you alright?”

Dean frowns; he saw the movement and the volume going down on the screen, but the noise itself is still just as loud as it was before. The scene playing out on the screen is progressing, about to reach its violent peak, and Dean’s ears are about to pop.

Then Aunt Marge grows large from the accidental spell and Dean realizes that he’s sitting up straight, fingers grasping the rough threads of the carpet of Castiel’s room, so hard his fingers are bent enough for him to scrape his knuckles on it, leaving them red and bruised.

The scene ends then, finally, and only the aftermath is left, and suddenly, the volume drops so that Dean almost can’t hear it. There’s a steady pounding in his head and his heart is up beating just as furiously.

His fingers unclench and Dean breathes out long and deep.

Turning to his side, he sees Cas’ profile lit up by the laptop’s screen, a plethora of monochromatic color. Dean breathes out again, slow and shallow this time, and his heartbeat finally calms, retreating into a steady, normal beat.

“I’m fine,” he squeezes out. It was probably like when people with breasts get that weird sting of pain; it’s a bubble of air, apparently, and maybe the same thing happened to his brain, if that’s at all possible. He should have paid more attention in biology. “I’m fine, sorry. Don’t know what that was about, just my head started hurting is all.”

Castiel tilts his head, his palm finding Dean’s easily. “Should I pause the movie, do you wanna go to bed now?”

Dean shakes his head resolutely. “No, I’m seriously fine, Cas. Don’t worry.” For good measure, he forces a quick kiss onto his temple before resting his head back on Cas’ shoulder, nuzzling his face against the fabric of the Gryffindor shirt that he loves so much, seeking warmth.

The incident doesn’t repeat itself and Dean forgets all about it by the time he starts dozing off sometimes towards the middle of the Goblet of Fire.

 

///

 

Just like Dean can easily agree with Charlie that Christmas generally sucks, he can agree with Castiel that Valentine’s Day is just a big humbug good for nothing. Their two months anniversary that comes around the same date is also something they only briefly mention.

That being said, the fact that they have to stay separate on that cold Sunday on which the fourteenth of February falls because there is studying to be done and English papers to be written makes the big humbug (good for nothing) look kind of desirable.

Honestly, Dean would do anything to just get something, maybe flowers, and in a completely cliché way ring Castiel’s bell unexpectedly. The textbook lying agape on his table, though, sets him straight.

When it starts snowing around eight in the evening, big white snowflakes glowing in the street lamps’ light, it really makes Dean reconsider, though. Idly, he stands by his window, recalling the first snow of the winter, his phone lying in his hand. Maybe he could call. This could be the _last_ snow of the winter, and maybe Cas is studying and can’t see, and he wouldn’t want to miss that and, yeah, so Dean’s just looking for excuses, so what.

He doesn’t want to be the weak one that caves in on freaking Valentine’s Day after establishing that they didn’t want to celebrate it, but he makes a deal with himself: if the snow doesn’t stop in the next ten minutes, he’s just gonna do it, text or call, whichever.

The snow does not stop falling, is the thing. True to his word, Dean (still standing by the window and looking like a complete idiot) finally brings up the phone and unlocks the screen. He decides that texting is safer than calling and will probably make him look less desperate.

He’s still on the fence about it, though. He types, _I know we said we wouldn’t make a big deal of this buti_ and that’s a typo right there, except instead of hitting the backspace button Dean’s fingers slip and hit the send button instead.

“Fuck,” Dean mumbles underneath his breath and with the device having made the decision for him, he quickly retypes the text.

_But I thought that maybe you should know there are some big-ass snowflakes outside your window. When I saw I thought of you and us._

_I still have nearly half of my notes to go through_ , Castiel texts back quickly, and Dean wonders whether it was really so obvious that he was hinting at going out. And he wonders, is that really what he wants right now? But the thing is, of course it is.

Looking up at the falling snow, his forehead nearly resting against the cold glass of his window, he starts humming. This time, he types quickly because he doesn’t want his anxiety to kick in and prevent him from sending it.

_All my loving_ , he types hoping it will come out typo-less, _I will send to you, all my loving, darling I’ll be true_

And he sends it like that, no period and no nothing, just a message sent out to hopefully be received well.

The phone chimes in Dean’s hand before he can recollect himself, the incoming call lighting up his screen. He picks up, trying not to smile.

“Dean,” Castiel says instead of a hello, seemingly breathless.

“Hey, Cas.”

It seems like the line has gone deaf it grows so quiet for a bit; Dean almost starts to think that they’ve lost signal because of all the snow. His body jerks when Castiel suddenly speaks up.

“I could meet you in about twenty minutes,” he says.

“I’ll come pick you up and we can just take a walk or something,” Dean suggests, hoping his words and the tone of his voice don’t give away how excited he is, how he can already see himself putting on his coat and walking briskly up their street so he can get to his destination as soon as possible.

Castiel huffs out a laugh. “I just want to kiss you in the snow again.”

“You’re worse than most Valentine’s Day commercials,” Dean informs him, but his stomach turns a cartwheel at that, and before they even end the call, he’s already out of his room and running down the stairs.

 

///

 

The end of February is the return of Cas’ ugly trenchcoat.

The weather is still icy sometimes but bearable, and when Cas shows up and Dean realizes that he’s no longer wearing the dark coat but there’s the beige thingy on him again, it means two things. One, he remembers that hello, Castiel freaking Novak can make even something like _that_ look strangely attractive. Two, it definitely means that spring is on its way and seeing the light color instead of the dark one is somewhat uplifting.

They’ve come to meeting in front of the school by this point, two and a half blocks away from the front gate, actually. It’s where their paths cross and it gives them the opportunity to just dumbly hold hands for at least a little while.

They part at the lockers, each going to their respective one, to get stuff, but then rejoin and walk to their first class together. Except today, Castiel pecks Dean’s cheek shortly.

“I need to go to the bathroom, didn’t have enough time at home. I’ll be right there.”

“You need me to take your things?”

“Aw, this is why you’re a keeper,” Castiel declares and without much hesitation shoves his text- and notebooks into Dean’s hands, hanging his semi-heavy schoolbag over Dean’s outreached forearm. “I’ll just be a couple of minutes.”

Dean nods promptly and, feeling like an actual Christmas tree – except with textbooks and other school supplies for decorations – makes his way to the first class. He lays Castiel’s things on his usual table next to Dean’s and sits down himself with a sigh.

“Where’s Charlie?” he asks when he sees Bela sitting by herself next to him, her nose buried in some book.

“Sick,” she tells him and closes the book, placing it on her desk and then resting her hands on top of it. “So life is basically pointless now and I don’t want to be here.”

“Am I not good enough for you?”

“Barely,” she counters and shuffles in her chair. “Where’s your darling?”

“Taking a leak, if you need to know,” he informs her with a grin that only deepens when Bela makes a disgusted face.

Her expression grows serious after that and she moves her chair so she’s sitting closer to him. She looks around as if she expects spies to be listening in on their conversation, and then seems to inspect Dean’s face. “How are you doing?”

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up and he has to fight the urge to pull away. “Rainbows and sunshine. What do you mean exactly?”

“You know,” she says, her eyes widening for a second to point out that she’s talking about a _thing_ , but it’s early in the morning and it takes Dean a bit to wake up and actually catch up on what she’s talking about. “Anything?”

“I’m fine!” Dean says louder than he probably should have, but Bela nods in satisfaction. “Jesus.”

“I had to make sure,” she says reassuringly. “Don’t make a big deal of it.”

“Whatever,” he rolls his eyes, which is usually her job, and doesn’t comment on it when Bela simply abandons the idea of any further conversation and goes back to her book, like she never actually put it down.

The first bell rings then and Dean’s eyes fall downward to the old watch on his wrist that he practically stole from his dad. Cas has been gone for longer than Dean had expected, and it drops a sense of unease in his stomach. He looks around the room, eyes going over every student present in here, and his frown deepens.

“I don’t see Zach’s group anywhere,” he notes out loud and Bela’s eyes shoot up from her book.

She shrugs. “They’re not always here by the first bell,” she tells him, but she keeps watching him for a reaction.

Which, of course, is bound to come. Dean tries to count to ten, telling himself that Cas will have shown up by then, but the only people walking in through the door is a group of popular girls – none of the jocks tailing them, and no Cas either. The unease rolls over Dean more fiercely; overcomes him before he can stop it.

“Something’s wrong,” he breathes out, absolutely certain of this, and the legs of the chair screech across the floor when he moves abruptly, standing up. “I’ll be right back,” he tells Bela, not waiting for her to stop him, unwilling to give her such an option.

 

///

 

Almost spastically, Dean tries to logically work out which bathroom Cas would go into while walking at the same time. Technically, there is one close to the classroom, but considering they broke apart at the lockers, Dean thinks it’s safe to assume that he really had to go and chose the bathroom just a few steps away from the lockers.

The hallway seems to be never ending, and it takes a lot in Dean not to break into a jog; but he doesn’t want a teacher to notice him or get detention, so he does his best to look like he’s just a normal student rushing to get to his classroom on time.

Rows and rows of lockers pass by him; it feels like they’re the ones rushing onwards while he’s stuck in the same spot, unmoving.

When he finally gets to the bathroom and opens the door, he is breathless despite deciding not to run.

Logic is not available after that. Dean can hear muffled voices from around the corner where the urinals stand; he can’t decipher the words but the tone of the voice is enough, it doesn’t even sound human, it sounds like vicious hissing from someone lizard-like. Before he can will his body the move, there’s a clatter of footsteps and laughs covering them and a group of boys drag someone to the front room with the wash sinks and mirrors.

It doesn’t register with Dean at first, because even though he’s not blind anymore, this still feels fucking surreal. For a mute second, he can only watch as Raphael drags Castiel and presses him against the far wall. His forearm is against Cas’ neck and even from this distance, Dean can see the unhealthy press on Cas’ Adam’s apple, and then Zach steps in and Dean is saved from having to let his eyes travel up to Cas’ face and see what’s reflected there.

“Piss off,” Michael says when he notices Dean just standing there with his fists balled by his sides.

Dean has never caused trouble. Never ever has gotten into trouble himself. That’s probably why Michael turns away, thinking that it’s all settled now, but Dean stubbornly stays.

Even more so, he takes a tentative step forwards.

“Let him go,” he hears himself say.

His voice is loud enough to catch the bullies’ attention; they all turn to him, considering him.

“I said piss off,” Michael repeats again, this time much angrier, a hidden threat in this last warning, as if he was really saying that if Dean doesn’t walk out right away, he could easily be the one pressed against the wall in just a second.

But Dean doesn’t falter; he recalls the spell and he is suddenly sure that it’s still in him, ready to act.

When Zach moves, motioning with his hand for Raphael to keep holding Cas in place while he settles this; that’s when it happens.

A ball of rage unwinds in Dean’s chest and its contents spill, rolling over Dean’s body, replacing the blood in his veins and prickling at the tips of his fingers. He calls on it, _help me_ echoing through his head as the angry warmth spreads all around him, and then he takes another step, and another, until he and Zach meet in the middle of the room.

Dean doesn’t hesitate. He shoves Zach, palms still balled into fists and hitting the boy’s chest with force. It’s almost amazing to watch, the way he flies across the room until his back hits the wall right next to where Cas is standing with the rest of the boys cornering him.

“I said let him fucking go,” Dean growls and his voice doesn’t sound like his anymore at all; it’s a growl crawling out of his lungs. It takes him three steps to get to Zach, fast enough to step up to him before he’s recollected himself. “Did you not hear me when I said that?”

“Fuck you, man,” Zachariah mumbles, trying to stand up straight, but Dean’s got a fistful of the fabric of his shirt in his hand and he pulls at it. Dean can imagine the painful pull of the collar on the back of Zach’s neck as he keeps pulling and pulling, and he revels in that knowledge.

“ _Let him go_ ,” Dean repeats once again, and this is a warning just as much as Michael’s words were before.

Zach is gasping for air in front of him and Dean wouldn’t even notice that his pull has become too much and Zach is hanging a few inches up in the air if it wasn’t for the tip of his shoe hitting Dean’s shin in a vain try to get back to the ground.

“Let the fucker go, let him go,” Zachariah gets out and Dean only lets him go after he sees Raphael release his grip on Castiel out of the corner of his eye. He does let go without care, taking pleasure in the way Zach’s body slumps to the ground and lies there motionless for a few seconds before the boy regains his balance and jumps up. “You’re a fucking freak, Winchester,” he spits in Dean’s face before stumbling out of the bathroom, the other boys following him like dogs.

Dean is still breathing heavily when he crosses the short distance to Castiel, sitting on the cold dirty floor in a messy pile, rubbing at his hurt neck. “C’mon,” he says, trying to make his voice sound normal again, but it still comes out as a demand.

Mindlessly, Castiel grabs hold of Dean’s outreached hands and begins to pull himself up when he looks up and gasps much like Zach did.

“Dean --” he starts, his eyes wide, “Your eyes.”

“What about ‘em?” Dean asks impatiently, tugging at Castiel’s hands to finally pull him up.

Castiel struggles out of the grip, pulling himself free. “God, go look at them. There’s something wrong with them, I swear.”

Dean huffs out an annoyed breath but obeys, turning around and walking up to the mirror.

The reflection staring back at him is Dean but isn’t him at the same time; his features look somewhat harder than before, but that’s not the thing that really worries him. It’s the eyes, because there _is_ something wrong with them. It’s not the usual greens staring back at him – two eyes look back, yes, but they’re, pitch black, black as the deepest darkness Dean has ever seen. They glisten in the daylight but the blackness seems to stretch on for miles and miles, all the way to the deepest secrets of what makes him _him_ , and he can see nothing.

The last bell rings over their heads loudly and Dean blinks in surprise a few times, rapidly.

When he looks at himself now, the blackness is gone and two pools of green stare back at him, wide and scared and shocked.

“I don’t see anything,” Dean says, muttering the lie like it’s the most normal thing to do. But he can kid himself that that’s the truth; after all, they are all okay now. He can lie to himself just fine that it was just the adrenaline rush getting to him, nothing more.

“But they were –”

“They’re fine,” Dean says again, impatiently, and turns around to look at Cas to show him that he’s completely okay, nothing extraordinary at all, definitely no black eyes here.

(But they were there, he knows, but maybe it was an illusion, maybe it wasn’t real, maybe -- )

“I know what I saw,” Castiel demands.

“You were out of breath,” Dean snaps at him. “The lack of oxygen got to you. My eyes are just normal. Come on, get up,” he says, still so very command-like and emotionless, but maybe it’s because he’s scared that if he let go of that, he would be just terrified.

Castiel keeps sitting on the ground resolutely. “Let’s just skip,” he murmurs quietly and his eyes fall just like his expression, and all Dean can see now is the messy top of Cas’ head.

That’s when he finally lets go and allows the situation to really get to him, allows his brain to go over what just happened. The memory itself is kind of blurry – he can recollect what happened but it doesn’t feel like it was actually him living through it, it feels like he just watched it happen from afar.

He sinks down on the ground next to Cas, trying to ignore all the possible germs and dirt he could be picking up just from sitting here. He stares numbly in front of himself, both of them at a loss for words.

“You should have…” Dean starts but ultimately cannot finish, shaking his head. Pulling his knees up to his chest and resting his elbows on them, he remembers that the spell is _alive_ and so he quietly, inside his head, tells it to retreat, just hoping that it will work. “Why didn’t you tell me it got worse?” he asks then, tired but not accusatory.

Castiel is silent beside him for a second. “I didn’t want to upset you,” he manages after a while, his voice hoarse and croaky.

“Please don’t do that again,” Dean says dismissively, then finally turns to face Cas. “Is it still about Anna? Or is it something else?”

“Mostly,” Castiel says, “But also about me being weird and them beating it out of me. Nothing about you, though.”

“I’m happy to hear that our local bullies aren’t homophobic,” Dean comments sarcastically, but it doesn’t draw a laugh or even a smirk out of his boyfriend. Dean shuffles on the filthy floor so they’re shoulder to shoulder; he’s dying to touch Cas, to make sure he’s alright and hug him close, but he doesn’t want to freak him out with too much physical contact after what just happened. “I’m begging you, man, tell someone.”

All Dean gets in response is silence, stubborn and worrying. Despite stepping in, he still feels like a side character, no matter how hard he tries, and he doesn’t know how far he can push before Cas snaps and starts to block him out rather than listen to him. He doesn’t want that to happen, he’s terrified of that.

“Thank you for saving me,” Castiel whispers instead and for some reason, the words hurt like hell.

Dean doesn’t think of it as saving, not to mention he doesn’t think highly of it in any way; he feels wrong all over, almost sick that he had to push a boy against a wall and threaten him. This shouldn’t be happening, and even though the spell rumbles inside of him, happy to have come in handy, Dean despises it. And he’s so scared of those black eyes that stared at him briefly – he doubts that could be good, and that’s why he blocks it out.

He shakes his head, hoping his worry isn’t noticeable. “You don’t ever need to thank me for anything,” he tells him.

They skip, but it doesn’t feel as adventurous as it perhaps should; they drag their feet around the park, they sit, they stare, they try to exist without thinking back to their mutual experience, even though there’s a constant red remnant right on the front of Cas’ neck.

Dean is scared of that spot, scared of the entire situation, and so he doesn’t kiss it better, just covers it with his palm so he can pretend it doesn’t exist when they kiss goodbye.


	7. march

_if i told you what i was_   
_would you turn your back on me?_   
_and if i seem dangerous_   
_would you be scared?_

monster | imagine dragons

 

 

“But it can’t be normal,” Dean presses, sitting on the edge of Bela’s bed and rubbing his sweaty palms against the fabric of his jeans furiously. He can’t even properly look her in the eye.

It had happened again. The black eyes, that is; after another violent dream, once again filled with gut wrenching screams, he’d woken up and, distressed, run to the bathroom, needing to cool his face, and when he’d looked in the mirror those black holes had been staring back at him again. He’d blinked them away easily enough, like he would blink away the remnants of sleep, but they’d been there nonetheless and he couldn’t dismiss them again.

Bela moves on her spinny chair, humming. “It’s just the magic, Dean.”

“You never said anything about my eyes turning fucking black,” he argues, having lost his patience practically the second he saw the black reflecting in the mirror.

Bela stands up, crossing the room in silent contemplation. “I think you’re just superstitious, darling,” she says in the end, but at least she’s taking him seriously. “You saw what magic does to my eyes.”

“Yeah, gives them a pretty glow,” Dean comments ironically, rolling his eyes and grimacing. Restless, he moves backwards on the bed and starts jiggling one of his legs.

She copies his eye roll and stops in front of him, towering over him. “Stop freaking out, Dean. It’s just the spell, it’s nothing to worry about.”

“So what, does this mean my eyes are just gonna turn black for real at some point? What do I do then?”

“Start wearing colored contacts,” she tells him without hesitation, then sighs. “Listen, I didn’t know it would happen, but it’s just part of the spell. I’m sure it just acts up after you use the magic in you. It happened after the bathroom incident, right?”

Dean nods. “What about the dream, though? Why did it happen after that?”

“Your brain probably connected the violence or something, I don’t know,” she explains vaguely, throwing up her arms. “You feel okay, right? If you feel okay, then this is literally nothing to worry about. Magic does this sometimes, but it’s okay.”

“Magic is dangerous,” Dean mumbles to himself, those few words sticking with him more than what she’s saying now.

Bela wasn’t familiar with the spell before, she’d found it through intense research, and who knows what she dug up? She didn’t even know this would happen, it’s as surprising to her as it is to him – when he steals a look, he catches her worrying her bottom lip.

“I feel okay,” he tells her finally, even though it’s only a half-truth. He’s worried sick about this; yeah, he gets to use the strength to protect the ones he loves and himself, but the black eyes are possibly the most terrifying thing he’s ever seen (worse than when he watched The Blair Witch Project when he was thirteen and thought it was real), and if something’s that unsettling to you, perhaps you ought to consider it.

“Then relax,” she emphasizes yet again, sitting down on the bed next to Dean. She takes his hand and cradles it in her palms. “Maybe it will go away,” she says above a whisper.

“Very comforting,” Dean mumbles but lets her do exactly that, comfort him in the best way she knows, even though her words tear him apart even more. If Bela isn’t sure, if there’s a _maybe_ to take into consideration here, things could be freaking wrong. “Are you sure there’s nothing to worry about?”

“Just let it go,” Bela says, “Let the magic work itself out. Once it settles, you’ll be fine. I’m about ninety-seven percent sure, honestly.”

Dean allows the proclamation to take him and lull him; he doesn’t know what he’d do otherwise. Storing Bela’s words in his memory, he nods, tells himself, _you’ll be fine_ , and gently pulls his hand away from her, lying back on her king-sized bed.

“How did it feel, then?” she asks when she notices that he’s calmed down and lies down next to him. They turn to face each other, lying there like they used to when they were kids camping out in Bela’s yard to get the sense of adventure, talking about their futures and how non-boring they would surely be.

Dean blinks. “What d’ya mean?”

“Well, the spell. What did it do, how did it feel?”

“It felt like it wasn’t really me,” Dean admits after a few seconds of quiet thinking. He hums, nodding to confirm that that’s the most accurate thing he can come up with. “I don’t know. But it was me at the same time. When I shoved Zach he flew across half the room.”

“Damn,” Bela murmurs, her slight British accent coming out.

“And, taking away the circumstances,” Dean finishes, dropping his eyes because he’s not very comfortable admitting this to himself, “It felt kind of amazing to be able to do that. I felt so strong, man. Like I never did before.”

Bela nods to encourage him on, but it’s all Dean has to say on the matter; he doesn’t know whether to thank her again, especially since the magic is still just settling, so he casts an unsure smile her way and then rolls back onto his back, his forearm falling over his face.

There’s a good side and a bad side to everything, he thinks.

 

///

 

March itself brings on mild weather that stays firmly in spring temperatures; that snow back in mid-February was, as it turns out, really the last of it.

When Dean and Cas wander to the park after the detention they got for skipping (mostly thanks to Anna because she wouldn’t let it slip, Dean’s parents would have probably been okay with it), it feels a lot like it did when they walked through here back in September, except the trees are starting to bloom and the grass is brightly alive instead of dying at their feet.

Without discussing it, they head towards the bench they sat on the last time they were here. Someone has carved their initials into the wood since then, big and crooked letters scarring its surface.

Dean sits down and Cas follows; there’s a visible change in them as well. They are as silent as they were back then, but it’s a comfortable silence now and when their knees bump, it’s definitely on purpose, to try and bring out a smile on the other one’s face.

“Gotta say I’m glad that’s over,” Dean says conversationally, leaning back with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his leather jacket. When Castiel does the same again and throws his leg over Dean’s as a bonus, he does smile after all.

“It wasn’t that bad,” Castiel states, but they share knowing smiles; detention is never good.

“How many more months till all this is over?” Dean asks with a sigh, one of his hands going up to rub at his face tiredly. He is _sick_ of this entire school thing; he can’t wait to get out, get a proper job at the garage, even if it means he’ll only get to see Cas every weekend or so since he ended up with an aspiring college boy on his arm.

“A few,” Castiel says and his voice sounds soothing even though his answer is vague. “If you asked Charlie, though, she’d probably be able to tell you how many hours or something like that. She’s very good.”

Dean huffs out a quiet laugh. They’re not as alone here as they were before; seems like spring lures everyone out, even people who usually prefer the indoors. Dean’s not surprised -- the world looks somewhat nicer with the sun fighting its way out of the cloud-shaped curtain.

“Aren’t you worried?” Castiel asks after a moment of silence.

It sounds like a ridiculous question considering what Castiel has been going through, refusing to acknowledge it or do something about it (however small), but Dean gets it, in a way.

“You mean after high school is over?”

“Yes,” Castiel breathes out. “It seems like everything will be different then, and I do worry about it sometimes.”

“Well, I don’t,” Dean counters and turns his face so he can look at Castiel, see how much worry is actually written on his face. He doesn’t know how deep it runs, whether it’s just the general idea of change that can seem terrifying or whether he actually thinks everything will be _different_ in the literal sense of the word. “I guess if anything things’ll just be easier, better.”

Castiel sighs instead of giving an answer, and it makes Dean wonder whether Cas is actually stuck in a loop of things-won’t-get-better.

“Have they, you know…” he trails off, resting his hand over Cas’ thigh and rubbing idle circles into the fabric of his pants. He focuses on that, on Cas’ leg so carelessly swung over Dean’s like this is what they’re supposed to be and how they’re supposed to be. “Have they bothered you since then?”

“I don’t want to talk about them right now,” Castiel says, shaking his head as he does so, which is answer enough.

Even though Dean is not blind to it anymore, he still doesn’t understand, doesn’t see the point. That one question still finds him at night when he can’t sleep: why would they pick Castiel of all people? Because he has a ‘hot’ sister, because he raises his hand in class and likes to answer the teachers’ questions, because he carries around books and sings under his breath when he walks with his headphones in? Are those reasons enough, are those reasons at all? He would perhaps be able to understand homophobia, however nasty and idiotic it would be, but the point of all this is completely out of reach.

These are grown people, almost adults who snatch alcohol for themselves nearly every week, and they would corner a boy and threaten to beat him up repeatedly just because he was different? And why Cas out of all the different people in this school, why now, why can’t Dean do anything about it no matter how hard he tries?

“We won’t, then,” Dean sighs, leaning over and pressing a quick kiss onto Cas’ temple. “What do you wanna talk about instead?” he prompts him, feeling guiltier and guiltier that he keeps letting Cas avoid this even though he knows how important it is to talk it out.

Maybe next time, he thinks.

(Except next time he will be too scared to push him again, Dean would bet his life on it.)

They talk nonsense and then they talk shit about the book they have to read for English and eventually, the afternoon slips through their fingers.

Getting up to go, Dean feels okay, truly okay; he doesn’t even think about the spell and what it means, he has completely forgotten about the black eyes and thankfully Cas never brings it up either, probably deciding to believe Dean that he just imagined it.

Dean walks Cas home and they part with a kiss that lingers on Dean’s mouth and stirs something up in him; they haven’t done anything else aside from what happened on his birthday. Their make out sessions are heavy, they leave each other panting and desperate for more, but they haven’t gone further.

He’s just thinking about that on his way home, thinking about hot hands roaming his skin, when he realizes that someone’s following him.

It doesn’t make any sense, but he does get the feeling of intent footsteps behind him and a stare tearing holes into his back, and it’s not a nice feeling at all. First, he decides to quicken his pace, hoping that whoever it is will eventually change their direction, hoping that he’s just paranoid, but this neighborhood is ridiculously quiet and it’s not like the person following him is quiet; they’ve got heavy boots on them, stomping up the sidewalk, making their presence known.

So Dean slows back down, frantically trying to figure out what to do next. For some reason, he’s reluctant to call on the spell again, worried that this time the black eyes could stick forever, but when there’s whistling behind him and the person growls ‘freak’ under their breath, Dean stops dead in his tracks.

It’s the insult that does it, rather than the rudeness of even following him in the first place. He doesn’t feel like he’s in danger at all; it’s just that the anger starts to build up in him all over again, and this time it takes less time before it spreads around his body; as if his blood has already been infested.

He turns around on his heels, squinting. His stalker, who turns out to be Gordon, halts to a stop as well, but it’s obvious that he doesn’t feel endangered either; there’s a smirk dancing on his lips, as if provoking Dean was actually what he was after.

“Oh, did I upset the big Hulk?” Gordon mocks him, theatrically gasping and covering his mouth in faked shock for a second. “Whatcha gonna do?” he inquires, taking a few steps towards him.

_I may just kill you_ , Dean thinks suddenly and even the voice in his head has slipped into the low strange tone he used back in that bathroom. That thought doesn’t even terrify him.

The street is quiet, and Dean spots an alleyway just a few feet behind Gordon, opened up, inviting them in. There’s a plan in Dean’s head composed of simple commands only: push him there. Kick him, beat him. Squeeze the life out of him. Who does he think he is, anyway?

“Who do you think you are?” Dean asks with absolute disgust in his face, crossing the distance between them and shoving Gordon violently.

He can feel the new strength, he can feel the magic pumping through his veins; it’s refreshing and unknown and it feels freeing, however twisted. Dean isn’t scared anymore. The blood intoxicated with anger and disenchantment over mindless violence flows through him without care, and he feels just like that; weightless, careless, reckless.

Gordon laughs, still not losing the idea that he’s the one in control. “You gonna beat me up, Winchester? The fuck even are you? _Freak_ ,” he spits out again, as if he knew just how much it would anger Dean.

The smile is wiped off Gordon’s face when Dean shoves him again and he loses balance, falling exactly where Dean wanted him to; into the alleyway.

The pavement is cracked here, huge chunks of it missing and Gordon trips, stumbling and falling down, right onto his ass. Dean blinks a few times, pleased with the development, and when he fully opens his eyes then, the world seems to be drowning in more vibrant colors, like everything is way brighter than before. And he realizes, without even having to think about it, that his eyes have changed color again.

He sees it in the sudden fear in Gordon’s eyes; he knows that his eyes have filled up again, black every which way, and he smiles. _Good_ , he thinks, not fully aware of what this is, not wanting to think about it. He doesn’t have time to think at all. The strange power in him urges him on, tugs at him mercilessly, and it’s not like he wants to resist it. It feels like he would die if he decided not to follow it.

Gordon crawls away from him instead of getting up and running for his life, and inevitably, his back eventually hits the ugly wall covered in graffiti.

Dean walks up to him and crouches, his movements somewhat swift and easy, like he truly was weightless, like he could control every cell in his body and honestly do anything he pleased. Perhaps it’s somewhat inhuman, but within nanoseconds Dean’s got Gordon pinned nice and good, his palm, that has never before hurt anyone, his arm more fat than muscle, squeezing around Gordon’s neck.

“Why the fuck do you people think it’s okay to go ‘round and threaten people, huh?” Dean asks with a slight tilt of his head. “What the fuck makes you so special that you think you can do that?”

Gordon gasps, his fingers grasping at Dean’s to let him go, his mouth agape. Of course, he’s not capable of answering, but Dean tightens his grip anyway.

“Be a dear and tell that group of friends of yours to fuck off and leave others alone. You got it?” No answer again; Gordon’s eyes are starting to bulge out, the scratching of his nails becoming desperate. “ _You got it?_ ” Dean repeats and doesn’t release the hold until Gordon nods slightly, doing the best he can.

Coughing and retching, Gordon gets up and runs, finally runs for his life, leaving the alleyway; Dean’s senses are enhanced like this, he can still hear the coughing even as Gordon rounds the corner and disappears from his sight.

There’s still the same smirk on Dean’s face; were this a video game, he would have come out of this not having used any of his health bars. And not just that – he feels more alive than he did before. His breathing is steady and his heartbeat is, too; he’s on a high, unable to believe what just happened. It feels like he did something big, something huge, and for a second, he feels like he could win the world like this, without trouble.

Then the magic silences itself and retreats at least for a bit, Dean’s world growing greyer as the black eyes disappear as well.

That’s when the rush finally fades away and he realizes what he’s done; he realizes there will be bruises covering that boy’s neck for days, realizes that he nearly killed him with his bare hands – now he knows that he wasn’t far from doing just that, he knows that’s what he wanted to do. That’s what he probably would have done if he didn’t want to send a message first.

Dean starts shuddering, unable to move from his spot. Mindless violence; that’s what he did, and nothing else.

 

///

 

He finishes the job in the dream he has that night; finishes it repeatedly.

It’s not Gordon in his dream, just a random faceless boy, eyeless and mouthless, which is mostly terrifying just because it means he can’t scream in protest, and Dean can’t even see his eyes to see if there’s any violence in them so he would have at least something to justify this crime.

He chokes the boy first, watching as life leaves him in one final breath, and he rubs the filth off his hands when the boy falls by Dean’s knees.

He wants to walk away but the boy comes back to life, grasping at Dean’s ankle, and so Dean turns back; it’s a dream, anything goes. He kicks the boy right in the face from a two feet distance, watching as his brains splatter across the white wall behind him. He cuts him up with a blunt knife until all that’s left is blood and parts of human flesh.

There are no screams this time, except for the one Dean lets out when he wakes up.

 

///

 

Fingers scraping over the buttons on his phone, Dean frantically dials Bela’s number. He doesn’t need further proof that something is wrong with him. Too afraid to go check the mirror, he settles down with the world being greyish and believes that it means his eyes are the normal color.

The first call goes to voicemail, which is when Dean realizes that it’s barely eight in the morning. Frantic, he dials again, hoping that it would go better this time.

“Yeah?” sounds a voice, but Dean can tell right away that it’s not Bela’s usual early-morning grumpiness greeting him.

Shivers break out all over his body and he jumps up from his bed, trying to walk it out unsuccessfully. If his fingers weren’t clutching his phone, they would probably be trembling as well. Whenever he closes his eyes, his mind projects leftovers of the dream but that’s not the worst of it; the worst of it is when he recalls what happened with Gordon and almost can’t tell the difference.

“I need to talk to Bela,” he manages to say, but even though he tries his hardest, he can tell that his voice shakes at least once.

There’s shuffling in the background. “She’s in the bathroom,” Charlie says hurriedly. “Are you okay, Dean?”

_No, no, no, no I’m not. Fuck._

“Can you get her for me?” he insists, knowing that it’s not appropriate, knowing that it probably won’t work. The fact that he straight out ignored her question probably won’t help either.

More shuffling. “She just went in, I can hear the shower running. Are you okay? And don’t you dare not answer me.”

Dean closes his eyes and presses his back against the wall, the same spot Cas pressed him against weeks ago. Once but fiercely, he bangs his head against it, hoping that it will push all those thoughts out of there. The magic rumbles inside of him, persistent, provoked by the violence of his dream, and he doesn’t know how to shut it up. And that’s not how it’s supposed to be, either, now is it?

Dean gulps. “I’m fine,” he squeezes out and since it’s only two words, he manages them without failing or fucking up. He could almost believe himself that he’s not having some sort of a mild panic attack, even though he feels like bursting out of his body and doesn’t know how to move to get rid of it or ease the discomfort.

“You sound awful,” Charlie comments. “Where are you? We’ll come get you, seriously. Something with Cas?”

Dean shakes his head, the panic adding on. “No no no, I’m fine, really. I’m home. I just. Never mind, okay? I just wanted to ask something random but uh,” he fakes a laugh. “It can wait. Okay?”

“What the fuck, Dean?”

“I’m super sleep deprived,” he tells her, nearly out of breath. “I haven’t slept at all actually. So I’ll just, probably go do that now.”

“Jesus Christ, Dean,” Charlie exclaims and by the tone of her voice, he can tell that she bought his blatant lie. “Goodnight, I guess.”

“Yeah, yeah. Goodnight.” He doesn’t bother asking her not to tell Bela; she probably would anyway. Dramatically, hating himself for it, he slides down the wall, pulling his knees up to his chest. He closes his eyes and is welcomed by a sea of red from the cut up body of the faceless boy from his dream; they shoot back open.

He clutches the phone to his chest, willing himself not to cry. The magic is alive, alright. It feels like another human being cramped into his body trying to break out, and it doesn’t look like he can control it at all. Even without provocation, without anything he could react to, it pulses in his veins and whispers to him in tongues he can’t understand, _so_ alive, _so_ dangerous, just like Bela said. This is not how it was supposed to be.

He was supposed to protect Cas and the other kids. Maybe scare the bad guys away. But not like this, never like this.

Guilt and fear sweep over him; he’s scared, oh boy, he’s as scared as the four year old version of him that believed that there was a monster hiding under his bed.

“Shut up,” he says out loud, but he’s talking to the magic, not to himself. It rumbles inside him all the more, powerful.

Maybe it’s still just settling. But by this point, he’s seen enough to know that settling won’t help; if anything, it will get even worse. It will overpower him without trouble, he can tell. It’s already bad as it is.

Finally calming down, Dean realizes that even though it may bring on serious, real hell, there’s one thing he has to do; he needs to tell Cas. It was a mistake not to tell him in the first place, even though Bela wanted to keep it a secret. It could have been a secret, okay, but Cas should have been in on it from the very start.

Dean decides not to call, fearing that Castiel might not be up and have his phone on silent. He grabs his coat and sneaks out of the house instead, like he never used to, managing not to wake up his parents or Sam.

He walks the streets with caution, as if scared that Gordon could still be following him, or maybe the others, but the world is still quiet. Saturdays are for sleeping in, after all. Saturdays are quiet bedrooms and sunlit kitchens; they’re not violent bloody dreams and guts squeezed in worry.

Dean has to ring the bell twice before Anna’s voice talks out of the buzzer.

“Yes?” Her voice cracks over the word and Dean can practically see her in her slippers and nightgown just like that night back during winter, and oh God, how long ago that seems to be.

At least he has calmed down on his way over here. The mornings are still chilly, the sun deceiving; the cold has managed to somehow cool his fear a little.

“Hey, uh, Anna,” he says, “Can I see Cas?”

“It’s half past eight in the morning,” Anna counters, “But I mean, of course. He’s up anyway.”

“Oh, he’s up? Would you – um, could you send him down? I need to talk to him and I’d rather not come up.”

“Is everything okay?” Anna asks with a certain pang of worry to her voice, and Dean rolls his eyes, impatient.

“Yeah. If it’s a problem I can come up, I guess.”

“No, it’s okay,” Anna shushes him, probably having spoken to Cas in vague gesticulation while Dean was coming up with something to say. “I’ll send him right down. You can come back up for breakfast once you’re done talking or whatever.”

“I thought you never made breakfast,” Dean comments, remembering the texts he and Cas exchanged before they became more than friends. The freedom of being able to say that makes him realize just how close he’s become not only with Cas but with his only family as well; Anna’s short laugh is a proof of that, she doesn’t scold him for it.

“Well, since we’d have a special guest,” she says. There’s a bang in the background, Cas slamming the door behind him, so Dean nods to himself and leans towards the buzzer for the last time.

“Thanks, Anna,” he says and their conversation is over. He steps back from the buzzer, wondering whether Cas will take the elevator or walk down; either way, he sits down on the cold stairs leading up to the apartment building’s door and rubs his hands to regain some warmth.

Castiel appears not long after, leaning down and kissing Dean on the top of his head instead of a hello.

“What a nice surprise, boyfriend,” he says with a sheepish, happy smile. They usually don’t go out; sometimes to eat, sometimes to go see a movie, but other than that, they scarcely go on walks, preferring to just huddle up in each other’s rooms and hang out freely. Dean wishes he could take Cas out now, especially seeing the excitement on his face; he worries, suddenly, that Cas will not take this well.

Dean tries a smile anyway, managing to only pull one corner of his mouth up. He gets up, dusting off his butt and then catching Cas’ forearm, running his fingers down the sleeve of his trenchcoat and then slipping his fingers in between Cas’.

“I kind of need to talk to you,” Dean mumbles and Cas’ brow furrows almost right away, the stigma of those words getting to him without doubt.

“Okay,” he breathes out, stuffing his free hand into his coat’s sleeve. “Where do you want to go?”

Dean hums, uncertain. He just wants to go around the building to get to the trees, to see them as they bloom in a way he can’t comprehend, enveloping spring and its warmth, but at the same time, he can’t stain that place with what’s inside him, with what he wants to share.

He’s selfish, though. Terribly selfish, and the part of him that just wants to breathe in the piece of green hiding behind large apartment buildings is stronger than him. And maybe he hopes that however bad the magic in him is, the magic of the place where they kissed while snow fell over their faces is stronger.

“Just around the building,” Dean suggests and Cas nods, leading the way. Their walk is not brisk, they’re not running to chase the tail of the first snow of the year. It seems to take minutes, much longer than when they walked this path for the first time.

The trees are as beautiful as Dean wanted them to be, so at least there’s that. He can imagine kids from these buildings running around, getting their pants filthy with the smeared green of the fresh grass, but the early morning grants them the privacy that they need. When they sit by the trees, the grass is still wet and cold and they press themselves against each other. This is what protecting each other should look like, Dean thinks.

His heart picks up a quicker pace as nervousness catches up to him, finally. He can’t exactly put his finger on _why_ he thinks this will be bad; he just figures that it will be, and once he arrives at that assumption, it’s impossible to backtrack.

“So what did you want to talk about?” Castiel prompts him, hugging the trenchcoat close around him, when Dean’s mouth seems to be zipped tight.

The boy sighs, his hand now in Cas’ lap as Castiel plays with his fingers, brushes his own over Dean’s life line.

“I think I did something really bad,” Dean murmurs with trouble.

“What do you mean, something bad? Are you okay?” And Dean swears that if someone else asks if he’s okay, he’s gonna start throwing punches.

He smiles. “Thing is, I thought I was doing something good. But I don’t think so anymore.”

“I can’t understand you when you’re so vague,” Castiel complains, impatient to hear the real reason behind this meeting, and despite the cold surrounding them Dean’s palms start to grow sweaty all over again.

“Okay,” he breathes out, his gaze dropping to where their hands meet. “I promised Bela it would be a secret, but I figure that it’s important I tell you, right? So… uh... she’s… um, Bela’s a witch,” he gets out eventually, hating himself for betraying his oldest friend.

“Oh,” is all Castiel has to say about that, as if he was already familiar with the concept or had his own suspicions; Dean keeps forgetting and forgetting how much Castiel actually knows, how he would probably be able to recite trivia on witchcraft and its history if Dean only asked him. Like back then, when he started this whole thing with dumb Japanese ritual crap. Dean loves him for it, yes, he loves him for it. “That’s not so bad.”

“That’s not the – that’s not the bad thing,” Dean explains, wondering if he’ll be able to tell this without repeating himself twice in every sentence.

Castiel hums, his fingers tightening around Dean’s. “What’s the bad thing, then?”

“I, uh…” Dean trails off. He closes his eyes and pleasant darkness envelopes him, finally no dreams to haunt him, the magic having retreated. He’ll just say it, yeah, and he’ll get it over with. “I let her do a spell. A spell that makes me stronger. I did it so I could protect you, and all the other kids, from the bullies and shit. But it’s – it’s gotten out of hand, I don’t think it’s good magic. It doesn’t feel like good magic.”

The silence that comes after that is ear splitting. It takes a lot of courage for Dean to look up to search for a reaction; Castiel is looking away, his lips pursed and tense, a frown like a shadow on his face.

“That’s,” Castiel starts but then sighs in exasperation, shaking his head and finally looking back. “That’s so incredibly stupid, Dean.”

Dean laughs, nodding. “I know, Cas. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You weren’t supposed to do anything,” Castiel says, his tone somewhat impatient. “I didn’t need you to protect me.”

“I couldn’t just – it wasn’t just you, okay? It was all the other kids too, I just saw all of you suffering quietly and I just – ”

“You just assumed we all needed your help,” Castiel finishes for him, clearly not happy with it, but at least he’s not, you know, throwing a tantrum, even though Dean wasn’t really afraid of that. What he was really afraid of was silence. At least they’re talking it out. “Where I’m concerned? I know you saved me that one time, but I can -- I can hold my own ground. It was my decision to stand up to them, and I would have kept doing just that. Without you holding my hand. It was my decision.”

“How was it your decision to get beat up and cornered in the fucking bathroom?” Dean snaps, briefly losing his temper, then quickly going to take a deep breath and recollect himself. “I’m sorry. You didn’t ever want to talk about it, and I just thought maybe you did need help.”

“It’s just how I deal with things,” Castiel shrugs, “I don’t need to talk about them at length. It’s how I am. But if you asked, I would have told you.”

“I _did_ ask. You said you didn’t want to talk about it.”

Castiel sighs again, louder and more annoyed now. “That’s not the point, Dean. I feel like you just wanted to babysit me, and I don’t like that.”

“Well, you and the other kids,” Dean admits. “Was it really that bad that I felt like I needed to help?” he asks, his voice small and he feels just as tiny, just a little pile of cells that his body decided to rebel against and toss out of his own body.

Castiel stays silent for a moment again, considering. But it’s not as bad as Dean feared; they’re still holding hands, even though their fingers are squeezed in anger and misunderstanding and desperation.

“I don’t think it’s bad that you wanted to help,” Castiel says in the end, but he seems to be sad about it, as if he wanted the truth to be different, as if he wanted to be mad but couldn’t find a logical reason to be. “But I don’t like what you did to do so. How is the magic _not good_?”

“Well,” Dean starts, his chest hollowing, “There are the black eyes. I didn’t know that would happen and Bela didn’t know either.” Cas’ eyes shoot up at that and for a second he just stares, worry creasing his forehead – not even the smart boy thinks black eyes are normal, or something to not worry about. “I have dreams. Terrible, violent dreams,” Dean continues, untangling his fingers from Cas’ grip and rubbing them against his face tiredly instead, catching a faint scent of vanilla. “I can feel the magic in me. Yesterday, I – Gordon followed me from the park and I almost, I almost choked him, Cas. I didn’t want to stop. I’m so strong, stronger than I thought was possible for a human. I wanted to hurt him so bad, and I knew that I could if I just let go a bit more.”

He sobs out that last word but ultimately, the tears never come, as if the spell prevented him from manifesting any kind of grief or regret over his actions.

“Maybe I’m making too big of a deal out of this, right?” Dean tries then, desperate to get this confirmed.

“I don’t know. I don’t know at all,” Castiel says and when Dean looks at him, really looks at him outside of the oh-no-is-he-mad search, he can see that Castiel is not mad, not really; if there’s anything written on his face, it’s disappointment. Dean doesn’t know for sure whether it’s disappointment that Dean didn’t tell him before it happened, or disappointment that Dean did it at all, but he’s certain about one thing; it surely has something to do with him and how he acted, and he can’t erase that expression now, not after he put it on there so dumbly.

“I’m sorry,” Dean mumbles because it’s the best he can do, even though he knows it’s not much.

Castiel winces. “When did Bela do the spell?”

“On my – ” Dean stops, but the point of this is to tell the truth, and so he forces himself to continue. “On my birthday.”

Castiel laughs, the noise strained and verging on hysteric. That’s about as much as he allows himself to do, though – the rest of his reaction is just running his fingers through his hair so as to steal a second from Dean’s intent stare.

“I don’t know what to say,” Castiel admits after a while. The morning has drawn on, the temperature going up a slight bit and Dean can feel sweat at the back of his neck; he rubs at it absent-mindedly, wishing this wasn’t happening at all. “I feel like everything is a lie and I don’t really – I guess I don’t really understand.”

Dean wants to scream, to be honest. He just wants to let it all out, and maybe the magic would pour out as well, he just – he doesn’t want this. He never should have agreed to the spell, that’s one thing, but there’s all that ‘no use crying over spilled milk’ crap after all, and he doesn’t – he doesn’t want _this_. Doesn’t want this to be happening. Because Dean thinks – although it’s just assumptions yet again – that he made their months together seem fake, like a lie, by telling Cas that by the time they got intimate, he had something cooking up in him, and now he can’t stop it.

_I’m still me_ , he wants to say. “You don’t understand what?”

“Anything at all, actually,” Castiel whispers. “I feel like my head is about to explode.”

It angers Dean, it sure does; and it takes a lot not to burst out. For a second, he feels like punching something. The magic in him whispers to him that maybe this is unfair, that Dean is the one in distress and maybe he should make Castiel see that, but even though it makes Dean’s fists curl, he eventually manages to quiet it down. Dean has brought the distress on himself, and Castiel has every right to be confused.

“I guess I’m not invited for breakfast anymore, huh,” Dean says, trying to lighten it up.

Castiel turns to him, his expression blank, just a pale nothing. “I don’t think you should joke about this. Especially if it’s bad magic.”

“I don’t know what else to do,” Dean admits in defeat.

“Me neither. We’ll figure something out.” Dean breathes out at that, definitely relieved, because that’s a _we_ Cas used almost effortlessly, and maybe that means that not understanding doesn’t necessarily mean refusing to try to understand. That being said, Dean can feel the _but_ coming before Castiel’s lips even start to shape around it. “But I think you’re not invited for breakfast anymore.”

“Oh?”

Castiel gives Dean the benefit of looking at him and letting him see; his face is still scrunched up in worry but looks somehow sincere at the same time; somehow manages to let Dean know that this is not the end, that it’s temporary, that tomorrow maybe he would get invited again, just not today, not anymore, because things have gotten to be too much.

Castiel actually cracks a smile. “I just want to go back to sleep right now,” he tells Dean with that smirk, albeit it’s a sad one. “And then look online, and all that. But I need to be on my own and reorganize my head.”

“I understand,” Dean mumbles, although it’s hard. He doesn’t feel any calmer either, but at least Cas knows now, at least that’s over and Dean can stop worrying about it.

Except, they don’t kiss goodbye. Castiel does plaster a small kiss onto Dean’s temple before they part and he disappears back into the apartment building, but that’s it, nothing else. Dean would have given a lot to be able to lean back against that tree back there and let the boy devour him all over again, but all he’s left with is a ghost of a touch against his palm where they held hands, and everything else is gone.

No matter how sincere Castiel looked, being alone with thoughts like that (Dean can just see the kind – _Dean lied to me, he hasn’t been Dean for nearly all the time we’ve been together, Dean fucked up, maybe he’s toxic for me, maybe I should let go_ ) can twist that look in no time.

Dean’s fingers itch to ring the bell yet again, but ultimately, he doesn’t know what he would say, he doesn’t even think he ever knew the right words. So, eventually, after sitting on those cold stairs for a few minutes, he gets up and leaves, goes back home, because there’s nothing else to do.

 

///

 

If Dean had to use words to describe the week that follows, he’d say it’s _miserable_ ; because, hey, that’s exactly what the spring break feels like. Freaking miserable.

He, of course, hasn’t been invited for breakfast ever since that Saturday morning conversation, meaning that Castiel hasn’t contacted him since. Dean _really_ does try to be understanding, but it’s hard with the nightmare coming back every night, with the fear of looking at himself, with just all of this going on.

At some point, he selfishly admits to himself that part of the reason he was so eager to tell Cas was so that he wouldn’t be this fucking alone – newsflash, it didn’t help shit.

So he isolates himself instead. Which, to be honest, feels nice for the first two or three days, but then his Mom catches onto it, even his Dad does when Dean refuses to go work a shift at the garage despite the sudden abundance of free time.

However, it gets truly bad when Sam knocks on Dean’s door on Wednesday.

The young ‘un has been spending most of his break outside, either with his drama club friends or buying Jessica (who is still a thing, probably safe to assume a real keeper at this point) ice cream or movie tickets whenever he gets enough money. So to see him actually bothering to knock on Dean’s door when he could be doing something God-knows-what is kind of worrying.

“Fuck off,” Dean tells him rather straightforwardly after Sam enters the room without being given a permission.

“Wow, okay,” Sam whistles but instead of, well, fucking off, he just closes the door behind him and flops down on Dean’s bed like nothing’s going on. He’s wearing a hoodie, so he _must_ be on his way out; at least this, whatever it is, won’t take long. “Why are you so mopey?”

Dean, lying on the bed himself, sighs and places the book he’s been reading down on his chest, letting Sam shove his legs away to sit in a more comfortable position. “Did mom send you or what’s your problem?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “No, she didn’t send me,” he informs him. “But you barely left your room these past coupla days, so I thought I’d ask what’s up. So, what’s up?”

“None of your business. Go play outside or something,” Dean grumbles and if it wasn’t for the hurt look on Sam’s face, he wouldn’t even realize how mean that sounds; having the magic be his only company has played with him enough. The magic itself is a constant pressure, as if it wanted to burst out through his skin.

Sam shuffles on the bed again, awkward now. “I just thought you might wanna talk, no need to be an asshole about it.”

“Language.”

“Oh shut up, you just told me to fuck off, Mr. Role Model,” Sam complains, punching Dean in the shin.

Even that touch is enough, even though it wasn’t violent in any way, even though Dean knows that Sam didn’t mean it, enough to make Dean inhale sharply and stare at Sam’s fist as if it was a lethal weapon. _Crack-crack-crack_ echoes through Dean’s mind and he knows it’s the magic reminding him of the sound bones make when you break them; he’s done that countless times now, in his dreams.

“Just leave me alone, please?” Dean says, mild now, trying really hard to not let his voice slip into that weird low drawl. “Maybe we could talk later. Just wanna be alone right now.”

Sam takes to that more kindly than to the insults; he shrugs and nods, seeing it as a good enough argument. “’Kay. And, you know, it _would_ make mom happy if you at least showed up at dinner. Just saying, she still didn’t send me.”

Dean forces out a laugh, and as tense he is and as risky it is, he somewhat jokingly nudges Sam off his bed with his foot. _Good, good_ , he tells himself when it stays a playful kick and not a violent one.

After Sam finally leaves the room, Dean seems to consider the situation for a second. One of his hands is already back on the book as if to pick it up, even though he’s just been mindlessly rereading the same paragraph for the past hour, but the other jerks and finally goes for his phone.

He’s kept it on silent, as if _not_ hearing the incoming texts or calls made the waiting for it even more unbearable.

Even on silent, it’s pretty much pointless; there’s nothing. Definitely no missed call or texts from Cas.


	8. april

_don't care if he's guilty, don't care if he's not_   
_he's good and he's bad and he's all that i've got_   
_oh lord, oh lord, i'm begging you please_   
_don't take that sinner from me_

devil’s backbone | the civil wars

 

 

School starting back up in the first week of April after spring break is about as miserable as spring break itself.

Dean has never had trouble with pre-school anxiety that he sometimes sees even in Charlie. While it troubles him a lot outside of school, school itself has always looked simple enough: you just get there, talk to some people (or avoid them, depending on the mood), suffer through it and then go back home.

However, with zero Cas-contact over the break _and_ knowing that he let Bela’s secret out without really feeling bad about it for more than five minutes, said anxiety does hold his gut in a strong grip.

He’s kind of worried about meeting both of them. He knows he’ll have to tell Bela the secret’s out right away – he doesn’t think Cas would ramble on about it but Bela’s just as good at reading body language as Cas is bad at hiding it. And Cas, well, Dean worries (in all honesty) that it will just be a simple look shot his way and nothing else, just more avoidance and ‘reorganizing his head,’ as he called it.

Another thing he’s scared of is getting to school late and finding Cas and Bela, basically the people closest to him aside from Charlie, in a big fight.

That doesn’t happen, of course. Dean gets to school early, topping his own record (probably to stop the scenario in his head from actually taking place); he’s the first one of their group to arrive in the classroom.

To his luck, Bela is the next to show up, even though it’s usually Charlie. That being said, he stops considering it luck the second Bela sits next to him as always and looks him up and down, obviously sensing that something’s not right.

“I’m trying to decide whether to ask what’s up or whether I’m too tired to care.”

Dean turns on the chair to face Bela, leaning forwards and squeezing his hands between his thighs to stop them from shaking. “You should probably ask.”

“Oh no,” she lets out, lowering her backpack down onto the floor and, like him, turning in her chair to face him. “What’s up?”

She doesn’t really look worried at this point. She probably thinks it’s some dumb relationship trouble he’s about to load on her, or something equally trivial. He could still back out of this without harm.

Gritting his teeth, he answers. “I told Cas.”

“You did – ” Bela takes a deep breath, then holds up a finger and straightening her back up, she says in a stone-cold voice, “Give me ten seconds, maybe I won’t gouge your eyes out then.”

Dean would laugh at the drama if it weren’t his eyes in question, to be honest. To distract himself, he tries to count to ten in his head too, but he only gets to four when Bela’s shoulders slump down again and she seems to recollect herself.

“Why did you do that?” she asks in a weird hissing tone, which probably means that if they weren’t in public, she would legitimately yell his ears off. “We had a deal!”

“I almost…” he starts but then trails off, realizing his own voice is way too loud. He clears his throat and leans even closer, lowering it. “I almost killed a guy before spring break, for fuck’s sake. And I’ve been literally dreaming murder since then. The magic feels like an army of ants parading through my fucking body.”

“First of all, you need to calm down,” she proclaims, even though it’s quite possible that his tone is simply bothering her, unsettling in its quiet urgency. “I might as well tell Charlie now, great.”

Dean sits back, unpleasantly surprise. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got to say to that, that your stupid secret is no longer a secret now?”

“Well, what else do you want me to say?” she hisses back at him, still visibly annoyed and jiggling her leg nervously. Her eyes keep running towards the door and her forehead is genuinely scrunched up with worry, but as long as it stays that way, Dean can be sure that neither of their partners have walked through said door.

“Like maybe what the _fuck_ ’s wrong with me, how ‘bout you tell me that? I repeat, I _almost freaking killed a guy._ ”

His tone, not quite slipping into the low drawl, makes her snap out of her own discomfort. She looks at him, as if surprised; like she’s only now realizing they’re talking and what exactly it’s all about. The frown on her face deepens in a not very pretty way and for a moment, that’s all that Dean’s getting; you don’t see this look on Bela often and that’s why it takes him a while to realize that it’s actual concern deforming her features.

“I don’t…” Bela tries, making Dean wonder how she originally wanted to finish that – she doesn’t know, she doesn’t think it’s that serious, she doesn’t want to have anything to do with it? Either way, the end of the sentence is just her shaking head.

“You don’t _what_?” Dean presses, blinking rapidly, trying to keep the black eyes at bay; he can feel them coming just as much as he can feel his fingers going itchy from wanting to just punch something, hard.

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” Bela whispers after all, drawing away from him. “I was sure the spell was safe, I really don’t know what’s – ”

“Dammit,” Dean groans and before being able to control himself, his fist slams against his desk, the fine wood creaking and cracking in the middle even though he wasn’t aware of putting any force into it. Bela jumps and a few people bother to look over at Dean, eyebrows raised. There would surely be a few shouts of _freak_ if Zach’s group was anywhere near them.

Bela’s touch is tentative when she goes to wrap her fingers around Dean’s forearm, as if she was worried he might snap and crack _her_ open instead.

“It will be fine,” she tells him while Dean rubs at his eyes tiredly. “I’ll figure something out, I promise.”

“You should start by looking for a reverse spell.”

Dean looks up when he hears Castiel’s voice coming from behind him; as cheesy as it sounds, he’s missed the voice. Back then, back when the spell looked promising and okay, he imagined their spring break being different; maybe they’d drive out of town and camp somewhere, or just freaking stare up at the night sky to cheer up Cas’ inner astronomy nerd, who cares. Not getting any of that, especially for these reasons, hurts.

Dean half-expects Castiel to look away, but instead, the boy looks directly at Dean and manages a small smile.

_That’s not fair_ , the voice inside his head tells him, no longer in a tongue Dean can’t understand, _he ignored you for an entire week, he shouldn’t be able to just walk up to you like this. Get back at him, seek revenge._

_Shut up, just shut up_ , Dean says in his head, trying to focus on these words instead.

A burden relieves itself off Dean’s shoulders when Castiel sits down next to him as always; a part of him was worried that he’d rather retreat to that stupid nerd-seat in one of the middle rows he took back on his first day.

“Yeah, I’ll do that, of course,” Bela informs them both but even though it’s somewhat comforting to hear that, in a way, a crippling thought creeps its way into Dean’s head – what if it’s too late now, what if he can’t let go, what if the magic’s roots run too deep, what if _he_ becomes the magic?

He gives her the smile that she wants to see to let her know that this conversation is over for now. “I’m sorry that I told Cas, but maybe, you know. It’s time to tell Charlie.”

“True, I don’t think she’d miss your outbursts,” Bela comments but when Cas clears his throat, she shoots them both an apologetic look; no time for joking, not right now without a distinct way out of this. “You can fill me in on whatever happened in the afternoon or tomorrow, okay?”

Nodding – it’s not like they can discuss it here, not like they want to – Dean turns on the chair again, spinning around so he can face Cas instead, no matter how difficult and nerve wrecking it is.

“Am I still not invited over for breakfast?” he asks in a small voice, barely forcing himself to look up.

There’s a quick pause that makes Dean think of rejection, but then, “You can come over whenever you want.”

Despite the situation and despite the cracked wood of his desk, he smiles and finally manages to look up, only to find that Castiel is already staring up at him.

“I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you throughout spring break. I’d like to apologize for that,” Castiel murmurs, the conversation feeling eerily private even though more students keep coming in as it nears the first bell.

Dean shakes his head no, quick and resolute. “No, don’t. I dumped a whole lot on you, you needed time. Are we okay, though?” Because Dean doesn’t think he could deal with losing this, not now, not in the foreseeable future. Not ever, if that’s at all possible; for a moment, it felt like he fucked that one up.

Castiel nods, mirroring Dean’s small, tentative grin. “We are. It felt – it felt weird not having you around.”

Never minding the circumstances, Dean letting his grin deepen and tug at the corners of his mouth playfully and pull them up. He drops his gaze again, but only for a second, hesitant to let the somewhat dreamy expression on Castiel’s face pass without him noticing the fullness of it.

“Hey, how about,” Dean starts, feeling courageous and catching Castiel’s palm in his, reveling in its softness that he missed just as much. “How about you come over tomorrow night? My parents will be off at Bobby’s house for a dinner or something and I’m sure Sam will go out too. We could have the house to ourselves.”

He’s surprised to see close to no hesitation on Castiel’s face; he nods eagerly. “Sounds nice,” he mumbles and brings Dean’s hand up to his mouth, kissing his knuckles briefly.

Dean shudders, remembering the same knuckles being covered in blood in so many of his dreams, but he manages to keep the smile on, he manages to not let it overpower him.

 

///

 

For the first time in a seemingly long while, that night grants Dean dreamless sleep.

It’s probably safe to say that it’s thanks to his upcoming night with Cas – they both know, even though they haven’t discussed it further, that it means, you know, actually _spending_ the night together, especially with Dean commenting on the fact that his parents won’t be home.

Getting rid of Sam is about as easy as Dean expected it to be; one mention of giving him money to take his friends (or a certain Jessica Moore) for a movie and food afterwards and he was practically out the door.

With his spirits lifted, Dean expects himself to feel nervous much like he did back when Cas was supposed to come hang out at his house for the first time. He does rearrange his room and make his bed because he likes the idea of messing that up, but otherwise, he’s strangely calm; like he hasn’t been in weeks.

It’s been difficult, not letting go. Especially considering that however sweet that Monday morning was, with Cas actually thinking he needed to apologize, there were the other people trying to make it Hell. Zach’s group followed Dean all around the school that day, even risking being late to class; always whispering, or in Gordon’s case, yelling obscenities. And _freaks,_ oh God, so many whispers and shouts of it thrown Dean’s way.

But at least it kept them busy. This way, at least they couldn’t bother anyone else. And, if that’s important in any way, Dean never snapped, even though it felt like his bones were breaking, desperate for acting and moving and killing.

What is it like, carrying a monster inside you, one that you can’t quite control? Dean doesn’t really have an answer, but he’d like someone else to tell him, so maybe he could deal with it all better. Like this, everything is a mess.

Except for tonight. Tonight won’t be a mess. Dean doesn’t know how it’ll turn out, but he knows it’ll be _something_.

Castiel gets there around seven, with a somewhat nervous aura around him. He presents himself with another pie, most likely not home baked, that Dean takes with a knowing smile.

The house is bathed in soft light; Dean doesn’t turn on the light in the kitchen and once they’re in his room, only his nightstand lamp radiates light, making the room look intimate and mysterious, even with all the geeky posters and action figures around.

“So glad you’re here,” Dean tells Cas and without any further ado, their lips meet in a kiss.

They haven’t kissed in over a week now, which somehow really means a lot (come on, they’re still in high school, they can afford that feeling). Because it does feel like a first kiss all over again, except they’re not as tense; knowing each other’s skin, knowing how the other moves, makes the kiss passionate rather than shy.

Over the past weeks, as they quietly learned how to exist around each other in a way that allows them to kiss and touch, Castiel has learned that to get anywhere, he has to be the one in control without being pushy and forceful.

In a way, Dean feels like that works out perfectly; it feels like it’s completely natural for Cas to push against Dean’s chest, hard enough to make him move but light enough to make him lust after more.

Backing towards the bed, they soon fall on top of it; Dean’s knees buckle and he brings Castiel down with him, pulling at his shoulders, trying to keep their mouths together.

The kiss breaks inevitably and Castiel laughs against the skin of Dean’s cheek.

“Sorry,” he murmurs into the same spot before his lips wander back where they seem to belong; to Dean’s rosy-pink mouth, open in anticipation.

They both smile into the kiss, teeth meeting and tongues brushing, lips wetted with saliva. Castiel bites down on Dean’s lip, the sharp edges of his teeth sinking playfully into the skin of Dean’s full lips.

Groaning, Dean spreads his legs for Cas to slip right between them and his hands go freely, sliding underneath Cas’ shirt without trouble. It feels amazing, to have that soft skin of Cas’ back, taut and smooth, against the creases of his palms.

“Stop tickling me,” Castiel laughs when Dean runs his hands up and down the other boy’s sides.

Playfully, Dean’s fingers dance up the same path and Castiel jerks and giggles. “I’ll stop if you take your shirt off,” Dean suggests.

_Are we really doing this?_ Castiel’s eyes seem to ask when he simply looks at Dean comfortable underneath him. Dean stays silent; he doesn’t want to say anything, doesn’t want to fuck it up; he feels like he’s ready, but he doesn’t think it would be okay to push Cas into it or even nod in suggestion. It’s Cas’ decision that he needs to make and Dean doesn’t want to interfere.

“Will you take yours off, too?” Castiel asks after a few silent seconds, their legs tangled and Cas holding himself up on his arms, his face barely inches away from Dean’s.

A giggle escapes from Dean’s mouth, rolls off his lips with a certain happy tone to it; he shakes his head. “You take it off,” he prompts breathlessly.

They strip each other with ease, no further hesitation needed. It’s almost as if their time apart, however short it was and whatever caused it, made them need each other all the more; it makes all these movements, all this skin to skin, body to body look and feel so, so natural. Dean doesn’t really – he doesn’t really see how he could go this long without doing this, even if it’s just lying next to each other, blissfully naked, kissing and touching, tasting and discovering. That alone is almost enough.

For now, it’s stupidly easy to forget everything else; the magic in Dean seems to quiet down as if deciding to grant him this one thing since it’s already taken so much away. He’s content where he is, with Cas’ hands roaming his body, wandering over his skin.

It’s intimate and it’s _trust_ ; they still laugh when Castiel hits the shelf over Dean’s bed, they still laugh when Dean kicks out as his back arches at one point and accidentally digs his toes into Cas’ calf almost painfully.

“Are you okay? With this?” Castiel asks at one point when Dean hooks his legs over Cas’ hips and they lean into each other; not quite there, but on their way.

Dean nods, eager; the tip of his cock is hard and resting against his belly, his heels digging into Cas’ backside to pull him closer. God, what a ridiculous question that is; Dean has been daydreaming about this for weeks, barely capable of thinking about anything but Cas like this, over him, _inside_ him, imagining what it would feel like, whether it would feel like Dean couldn’t take anymore, whether it would fill him to the brim, whether he would be able to breathe at all.

Nodding again, he says, “Yeah, Cas. ‘S perfect.”

“I read that first time is easier if you kneel, maybe you should – ”

Dean’s heels dig deeper. “No. Want it like this. I trust you, come on.”

It seems to do the trick, because before anything else, Castiel leans in for another kiss, thrusting his tongue into Dean’s mouth without much consideration, their kiss-bruised lips brushing yet again.

“There are, uh,” Dean says when Cas breaks the kiss, licking his lips, “Condoms in the top drawer.” Motioning towards the nightstand, he looks away, embarrassed that this is when he actually blushes.

“Okay,” Castiel mumbles and does reach over, more than half of his weight on Dean while he gets everything – aside from condoms, there’s a bottle of lube hiding in there as well. Castiel places both items by their side and his lips return to Dean’s face, tracing his eyebrows, his cheekbones, all the way down to his neck. “Tell me if I do something wrong, okay?”

Dean can’t imagine that happening but he nods anyway.

Castiel keeps on placing small kisses anywhere he can reach; he blesses Dean’s freckled shoulders with them, his hardened nipples, he covers all of Dean’s belly in butterfly-soft touches of his lips before he moves downwards.

There’s a second of nothing, as if Cas didn’t know what to do. Kneeling between Dean’s spread legs, he clears his throat. “I could. Can I.” He seems to not be able to form words; huffing out a laugh, he reaches over again and snags one of Dean’s pillows, motioning for Dean to lift up his hips and placing the cushion there for support. “Much better,” he breathes out afterwards while Dean readjusts himself.

He runs away from this; he wants to look but everything feels too much, and so he rests his head on the pillow and closes his eyes for a second, just listening as Cas opens the bottle of lube and squeezes some of it on his fingers.

Dean gasps when Castiel runs his (presumably) middle finger over Dean’s rim, the lube cold and unfamiliar.

“Shh,” Castiel whispers then, his face so close to Dean’s crotch he can feel the whoosh of his breath right on his cock, hot and heavy. As if to calm Dean down, he leans in and kisses his inner thigh shyly, making Dean shudder.

It’s not so bad, once Dean gets used to the sensation; in the end, it only takes a minute or so before he’s rocking his hips on Cas’ finger, his own hands reaching up and rubbing over his nipples, sighing in relief and pleasure.

“More,” Dean breathes out eventually, moving his hips.

Castiel lets out a deep breath, as if preparing himself for some difficult task.

It takes them a good half an hour before Dean can move comfortably against Castiel’s fingers, getting more from it than just friction that he’s never experienced before – but once they get there, sweat almost immediately breaks out on Dean’s forehead and where his erection had softened, it grows back into full hardness now, with Castiel’s fingers constantly brushing against his spot, gentle but persistent all at the same time.

“I really want to – ” Castiel says after a while, letting Dean know what it is that he wants to do by thrusting his fingers back into him and twisting them, making Dean jerk and arch his back, slipping off the pillow Cas used for support.

“Please,” Dean murmurs. He inhales sharply when Castiel removes his fingers and goes to cover his cock in lube instead. He leans up on his arms, watching as Castiel’s palm goes over his dick; his mouth does water now, the sight too much to take in, even though there’s the condom wrapped around Cas’ dick, preventing Dean from actually seeing. His birthday seems so long ago; he wishes he’d dropped to his knees first, before this all started.

Cas is all huffed out breathes and silent moments as he starts guiding himself inside, one of his hands on Dean’s knee and the other grasped around his cock. Dean blushes, though it completely gets covered by the pleasure-ridden flush on his face and reaches down, opening himself up with his hands for easier access, as eager and impatient to do this as Cas seems to be.

It’s – it’s everything Dean thought it would be, and for a short, brief moment, he’s not sure that’s a good thing.

Cas is bigger than his fingers and it does feel like he’s filling Dean all the way up. Not an edge of a secondary emotion, nothing could be added to this, or Dean would explode. It’s uncomfortable at first, Cas’ cock almost unwelcome in him, and so Dean closes his eyes and breathes the discomfort away until it becomes pleasure instead.

“Move,” he breathes out after a minute or so, his muscles relaxing, his fingers clutching Cas’ shoulders as if for dear life.

Castiel moans; a full-on moan is what it is, deep and guttural, when he finally moves his hips awkwardly and pulls half the way out, only to thrust back in, slowly, so gentle, as if Dean was made out of porcelain and Cas was scared of breaking him.

Something gives, then, and Dean can hear himself whimper when Castiel thrusts back in. His fingers slip down Castiel’s sweat-patterned skin, all the way to his forearms where he holds them in a deadly grip.

“Can I. I’m gonna move again,” Castiel warns him.

“Yeah,” Dean groans, his legs opening further over the small of Cas’ back, toes curling.

Perhaps it shouldn’t feel this good, or maybe that’s a lie that first times should be bad; because this isn’t, it feels heavenly. The lamp on Dean’s nightstand is still on and he watches, although he can’t focus all that well, on the shadows it casts on Castiel’s face, his shoulders, his skin.

“I love this so much,” Dean groans when Castiel starts moving with actual rhythm, hips rolling into Dean’s like waves. Still slow, still gentle, but hard enough. Dean can’t quite describe the feeling to himself, the feeling of having someone be this intimate with him, to have Cas inside him, but in short, it feels like he might explode from the friction. It seems as if every thrust was going back to his crotch.

Castiel laughs although his voice trips over it. Leaning in, he awkwardly presses his mouth against the corner of Dean’s in a failed kiss. “Me too,” he mumbles.

It feels like it would be too much to ask Cas to touch him so eventually, Dean wraps his palm around his own dick and squeezes.

Inevitably, Castiel comes before Dean does; thrusting in harder than before, his back arched and head thrown back; Dean trying to catch as much of his expression as he can to come himself, covering both his and Cas’ bellies in long white streaks of come.

When Castiel pulls out eventually, tossing the condom carefully away in the bin next to Dean’s bed, he snuggles up close to him; Dean himself is somehow quiet, as if still far gone, even though his orgasm has worn off.

“I hate being a teenager,” Castiel murmurs into the skin on Dean’s shoulders as he kisses it lazily, leaving a sloppy trail behind, _Cas was here_ in a saliva path, drying and cold on Dean’s skin.

Dean sighs, reluctantly letting go of the sudden quietness and calmness that had overcome him after their orgasm. Even with his tummy still filthy, he rolls onto his side and throwing his comforter over them, he entangles their feet.

Wide eyes to wide eyes, they silently stare at each other for a second.

“Did we really just…?” Dean mumbles, making Castiel’s smile come back and stretch his lips, spread even up to his eyes which look genuinely happy now, as if there wasn’t one thing wrong with the world.

“I believe so,” he confirms, bringing up his hand and brushing his fingers against Dean’s swollen lips, caressing them; then his cheek with the back of his hand, so familiar and so intimate, not laughable at all.

Everything is in that touch; everything they are, _how_ they are and why they’ve come to be together; why it all seems to make sense. Dean closes his eyes to it, leans against Cas’ palm; he feels like the intimacy and happiness between them is tangible, a real thing that can be touched and kept safe. But then again, all things tangible can be broken.

“You know,” Dean says somewhat sloppily, as if he was too tired to bother with his accent and pronunciation, “I know sex isn’t everything, but I’m just. That was really. You know?”

Castiel nods, with a soft giggle to his lips. “Yeah. Me too. I’m glad we did that.”

“I hope we get to do it again,” Dean exclaims, his eyebrow going up suggestively.

Castiel’s palm slips down Dean’s neck and rests there; his fingers curling over the back of it; he pulls Dean closer for another kiss. Their lips meet in a much calmer way now, even though Dean still can’t resist running his hands over Castiel’s chest, just for the sake of closeness.

“I feel so good right now,” Dean admits, not even realizing he wants to say those words before they’re out of his mouth, strangely loud and definite. They both know what he means; he means that the magic is asleep and he feels completely normal. “Sure hope it stays.”

Castiel nods, but as if he was scared that commenting on it further would ruin the atmosphere, he lets his face reclaim the smile from before. “Imagine how good you would feel after a shower.”

Dean seems to consider. “You might be on to somethin’,” he says and licking his lips, he adds, “Sam’s not gonna be home for at least another hour. How do you feel about taking it together?”

“I feel like there’ll never be enough space for the both of us, but because it’s you, I’m willing to give it a go.”

 

///

 

It _does_ stay; the happy feeling, that is. That entire week, no matter what happens at school, Dean is just Dean, and he himself stops worrying.

Occasionally, he asks Cas whether Zachariah and the others have been bothering him but he says no every single time, and Dean believes him; doesn’t think that Cas would lie to him, especially after they had such a falling out over, well, a giant lie.

So the week goes on and the April weather proves to be a savior; it gets warm, not exactly hot, not exactly the best spring temperatures can do either, but warm nonetheless. Cas’ blue hoodie warm, that is, and it feels nice.

When Saturday of that week rolls around, Dean even mentions to his Dad that he might stop by later in the afternoon and maybe work for a bit. He hasn’t gone in what feels like years, but pumped up with energy, he feels like it’s about time he gets back into it. Especially with the school year slowly but surely crawling to its end.

As an apprentice of sorts, Dean doesn’t get to do anything big; some small repairs that don’t require a professional, changing tires if need be, and admitting people in if Bobby and John are working back at the actual garage on one car or another.

On this particular Saturday, he’s stuck in the so-called admittance room – John seems to be going easy on him, only letting him change tires on an old Volkswagen earlier in the morning. Dean’s got the whole outfit on, though, despite being stuck here; all working coveralls with nasty stains of grease and other garage filth on his knees, some of it on his hands. He can smell a vague scent of just _cars_ on himself already and that makes him additionally happy.

Needless to say, most of this floaty feeling that Dean’s been carrying around ever since _that_ happened with Cas (always remembered fondly, especially late at night when Cas is a million blocks away) pops like a freaking bubble when Zachariah himself parks in front of the garage and then enters John  & Bobby’s like he’s the king of the world.

“Look at you,” he almost sing-songs, pleased when he notices Dean in his working attire standing by the admittance counter. “So happy to see you freaks know where your place is, with the _poor_.”

To be honest, Dean’s blood has started boiling way before Zachariah even opened his filthy ugly mouth to talk; of course, that being said, his words don’t make it any better. They make it worse.

“Well, anyway, _peasant_ ,” Zach goes on, apparently enjoying this way too much – apparently believing they’re still in Victorian London or some such, “I just need my oil changed.”

Dean huffs out a sarcastic laugh, drops his eyes for a second in a vain attempt to recollect himself. “You try’na tell me you can’t change the oil in your car, Zach?”

“Why should I get my hands filthy if there are people like you who can take care of it for me?” he bounces back, but he’s taken aback by Dean’s question for a second, struggling to come up with a comeback nasty enough to set Dean apart.

Oh, and it does, it sure does.

_You wouldn’t even have to choke him_ , the magic in him dances, _look at all the heavy tools around you. Can you imagine smashing his head in? Do you think you’d find any brains in there or would it just be shit? How about we find out, huh?_

“Take your ugly car someplace else,” Dean warns him, trying his hardest to stay where he is and not move forward.

The magic hasn’t spoken to him in days; it’s mind boggling to hear again and with such clarity; it’s like the spell just fell asleep for a little while so it could grow, become more powerful. Dean is not exactly surprised to hear it though – as if one part of him always knew it would come back, and that’s why he clung on to the good times so fiercely, so desperately.

Those good times are done now, he can tell – his hands are practically begging him to just grab something and attack, eager to experience the feel of hot wet blood on them.

_He would look so much better with his insides spilling out, can you imagine?_

The scariest thing, perhaps, is that he can understand the voice now, can decipher the messages and images it plants in his head; where it was an unfamiliar language once, it’s an old friend now. Unwelcome, yes, but present nonetheless. Dean _can_ imagine now.

“No,” Zachariah insists, and Dean feels like even if he tried to attack him, even if he tried to choke the life out of him, it wouldn’t shut him up like it did Gordon. Zachariah seems to be made up of something else entirely; something harder, dumber too, but something that won’t just budge, violence or not.

“You know what, Zachariah,” Dean says, using his full name on purpose. He licks his lips and finally crosses the distance between them, walking right up into Zach’s face even though the boy’s got a few inches on him. “Sure, leave your car with us. I’ll change the oil no problem. But I swear to fucking God I’ll destroy every other part of it, every single one. Huh? That sound fair to you?”

“Sure you would,” Zach looks him up and down with disgust clear on his ugly full-of-acne-scars face. “Your Dad would fucking kill you. And, you know what, I’d like to see him try.”

“I swear to _fucking_ God,” Dean’s voice drawls, angry and quiet and he knows that if he punched Zach right now, he would shove his nasal bone all the way to his brain no problem. He can practically hear the bone breaking and he smiles at the thought.

“Boohoo, I’m scared,” Zachariah mocks him, waving his hands around theatrically, his face scrunching up in a fake grimace. His expression falls not even five seconds later. “I’m not scared of you, weirdo. I’ll be back in an hour and you’d better do your fucking job.”

Zach tips the edge of his stupid baseball cap and turning on his heels, he throws the car keys at Dean and walks out of the garage nearly wriggling his ass in victory.

But no, Dean won’t stand for that, he won’t.

_You should have smashed his head in. You should have bothered, should have knocked his skull open and take his brains out with your bare hands. Should have shoved it down his throat! Should have!_

The voice is yelling, almost as bad as the bullies.

Dean’s vision is blurry and somewhat spinning. His body; it truly feels like it’s bursting open. He screams, a full-on shriek that echoes through the garage like he’s actually standing on top of a mountain, over a deep, deep valley.

He can only see bits and pieces of what’s right in front of him; there’s the door, there’s Zach’s car, there’s the door towards the main garage, and there’s the set of wrenches of every size. Dean goes for it, blinking three times a second trying to regain his balance, but it’s not possible. He’s rage embodied; he has never been this angry, he doesn’t think.

With no time, no capacity to think clearly, the voice crawls over the walls of his mind and keeps screaming.

_Smash it, ruin it! Do it! Break. It!_

Growling low in his throat, nearly unaware of himself, Dean’s hand clutches the largest wrench, fingers gripping the cold material, and he runs out of the garage, looking at Zach’s car like it’s enemy number one.

And then he does it. He listens to the voice because there’s nothing else to do, it _feels_ like there’s nothing else to do.

He smashes the back window into pieces and the glass breaking sounds like an enchanting melody in his ears.

_YES_ , the voice booms around his head, thrilled, like a kid jumping up and down after learning that they’re going to Disneyland. _YES, MORE!_

Dropping to his knees, Dean brings out the keys Zachariah threw at him and clutching the one for ignition, he drives it straight into the back left tire. This wouldn’t be possible if he was just a normal Dean; but he’s not that, is he? Driving the key in is about as easy as burying a spoon in a pile of half-melted ice cream.

“What the hell are you doing, boy?!” Bobby shouts, probably drawn in by Dean’s scream and the glass shattering.

His voice catches Dean off guard and he retreats, the wrench still in his hands. He stands up, short of breath, and he drops it as if he could somehow pretend that none of this has happened.

Because, the thing is, he _doesn’t_ know what he’s doing. It’s like he wasn’t even here for the past few minutes; sure, he has access to the memory of it, but it feels like it isn’t really his at all. It’s with trouble that he gets up from his knees, desperate to come up with an excuse and coming up empty. _Well, Bobby, I had a spell done that turned me into a monster and now anytime someone upsets me, I can, like, practically walk through walls. So, don’t piss me off, huh?_ Sure, they’d have a great laugh about it.

“Honestly?” Dean says, still somewhat out of breath as if his body was finally catching up on all the adrenaline and window-smashing. “I just felt like doin’ it. Kid that left it here is a giant bully _and_ he can’t even change the freakin’ oil in this thing.”

_And you should have SMASHED HIS HEAD IN!_

“What kinda excuse is that?” Bobby asks, still confused, a brilliant what-the-fuck (which he’d never say out loud, not around Dean as if he was still a five year old kid) on his face. “How you gonna explain that to him?”

Dean shakes his head, the corners of his mouth going down in an I-don’t-care expression. “You know what, I don’t give a rat’s ass. I’ll fix it before he gets it, and either he’ll pay for it, or I will. Whatever.”

He’s, yeah, he’s pretty sure he should have enough in his savings to pay for the damage. That being said, Zach’s family is so ugly rich (probably even more than Bela’s and that’s saying something) that if you told him it cost three hundred bucks to change the oil, he’d go for it no problem. And he’d pay.

“Somethin’s up with you, kiddo,” Bobby shakes his head, his old bones nearly creaking when he bends over to pick up the tool Dean so dramatically dropped.

Dean is at a loss for words at that; he should disagree like all the kids do, but he can’t.

 

///

 

The nap is not part of the night’s plan but it happens anyway. Dean dozes off around eight in the evening, more tired from snapping so badly, from going over it in his head again and again than from actually working.

He wakes up a short while later, his room already dark. It’s still just April; the sun sets early on (and he hadn’t noticed before dozing off), leaving the city to drown in shadows and darkness, whatever it may cost it.

Dean can’t remember a particular dream; he thought it would be different, thought he would dream bloody again like he did back when that accident with Gordon happened, but there’s no recollection of anything like that in his mind.

There’s something else, though.

As Dean takes a breath upon waking up, he registers a strange metallic smell that he’s not quite familiar with. Sleepy, it takes him a moment to realize that it’s not only that; his palms feel wet, and so do his feet. The bed sheets feel slippery underneath his body when he tries to move, and when he licks his lips, he can taste it as well; it’s blood.

There’s blood all over him. He’s practically bathing in it. He can smell it all over himself like a bad disease, can still taste it in his mouth. His stomach cartwheels, sending a clear signal of _whoops, there’s a possibility this could end badly._ The most terrifying thing, perhaps, is that he doesn’t even think to blame the magic. His first thought is – who did I kill after all? As if it was inevitable.

Dean scrambles over to turn on his nightstand lamp, knocking over his alarm clock in the process. His fingers tremble to find the switch and when they finally land on it, they initially slip over, wet and disgusting. When he finally manages to turn the light on, sitting up and frantically looking down his body, there’s… nothing. No blood.

The bed sheets are as clean as ever and the only thing wetting up his palms is sweat. There’s not even a drop of the dark thick liquid, no matter how real it felt just a second ago.

Running his fingers through his hair, the only thing Dean can do for a short moment is just stare; he feels hollow, like an emptied glass.

That was a hallucination – he is one hundred percent sure of it.

On autopilot, his fingers find his phone and dial Castiel’s number.

“Hey,” Castiel says after he picks up on the second ring, but Dean is still staring, wordlessly, at the white sheets all around him, their only flaw being that he scrunched them up by rolling all over them. “Dean?”

“’M fucked,” he says numbly, more to himself than really to Cas, closing his eyes momentarily. He wonders whether the world would be brighter if he cared to look closer, wonders whether his eyes are truly black now.

“What happened?”

“I’m about ninety percent sure I just had a hallucination,” he says in the same numb, flat tone, the only real sound slipping from his mouth a laugh verging on hysteria. “That sounds so bizarre when I say it. Fuck.”

Castiel’s voice sounds panicked when he speaks up again. “What was the hallucination? Are you okay?”

“I just,” Dean breathes out, waving his hand vaguely at the sheets even though Cas can’t see him, “I thought I was covered in – in blood. Head to toe. Then I turned the lights on, and there was just, nothing. But it wasn’t a dream, I swear to God, Cas.”

“I believe you,” Castiel shushes him quietly.

“I’m fucked,” Dean repeats again, as if he’s decided. “Can I uh. Can I come over and maybe sleep over there tonight? Or you come over, I don’t care. I just really – I don’t want to be alone. I’m so – but it’s okay if you can’t – ”

“I’m scared too,” Castiel admits quietly; Dean can just imagine him looking away at this precise moment so that he wouldn’t have to face Dean while saying that. “Please come over. I don’t want you to be alone.”

Dean presses his knuckles against his eyes to force away the stray tear that’s threatening to slip over and roll down his cheek. He will not cry.

“Thank you,” he whispers into the phone, not even sure Cas could hear the reply, and he hangs up.

There are no words, really. No words for how this feels; maybe like a parasite, but at this point, he’s not sure where it ends, whether it’s spread out all over his body or whether there’s still hope yet. It’s despair and regret and guilt and fear.

But there are no words.


	9. may

_on hands and knees we crawl_  
_you cannot stop us all_  
_our blood, our grace_  
_will never leave this place_

my violent heart | nine inch nails

 

 

With Dean’s fucked up sleeping schedule, two in the afternoon on the weekends has started to feel like early morning. And being sleep deprived has started to feel like something completely normal and usual.

He drags his feet out of bed on the first Sunday of May, feeling like it’s an impossible task to just cross his room to get his clothes and then go out. Actually going out would probably feel just as unimaginable if it wasn’t for the fact that he was meeting up with Castiel.

Pulling his well-worn Led Zeppelin shirt over his head, Dean rubs at his face tiredly and leaves his room, resolutely ignoring looking in the mirror. He hasn’t seen the black flash in his eyes in at least a few days now, but with the spell constantly working its magic in his head, he doesn’t want to risk it.

He jogs down the stairs, stopping in the kitchen to grab some food, although it turns out to be just biscuits (he doesn’t feel like eating anyway) and continues on down the hallway, passing the door and turning left towards the bathroom, where he can hear his mother drying her hair.

He knocks on the door as loudly as he can while containing his bonus strength in the bones of his knuckles, worried that otherwise he might crack the wood of the door open just like he did with his desk at school.

Mary turns off the hairdryer, her long blonde hair still half-wet. Idly, Dean notices that she’s wearing the shirt he gave her on Christmas, but it doesn’t please him enough to make him smile.

“Hey, darling,” Mary peeps up, uncurling the dryer’s cord from around her wrist and cracking a small smile at him.

Dean nods. “Just wanted to tell you I’m heading out,” he says in a mumble, hoping that Mary won’t notice the drawl that’s come to stay in his voice at all times now, whether he’s angry or not.

“Sure. Say hi to Cas for me?” she suggests with the same smile, which looks surreal in Dean’s eyes; but then again, his family doesn’t know how much Dean’s losing it.

“Will do,” he murmurs but keeps standing there, watching as Mary turns back to face the bathroom mirror. When her fingers click the power button, turning the hairdryer back on, Dean almost loses balance and falls backwards, he startles so bad.

Bugs fly out of the hairdryer the second it hums back to life, various shapes and sizes, buzzing viciously right in Mary’s face; in the reflection in the mirror, Dean watches in horror as they settle in the corners of her eyes, crawling into her nostrils and settling into her mouth.

Too stunned to move, he silently watches for a few seconds as the bugs entangle in her hair, but then he blinks and of course, it’s all gone, and Mary is just raising her eyebrows at him, and Dean feels so cold all over despite the magic bubbling up inside him, burning him out slowly.

Regaining his balance and calming down the beat of his heart, he waves goodbye at her and disappears from the house, the image still stuck in his head.

 

///

 

“At least it’s Friday tomorrow,” Castiel says into the phone.

Dean moves, his eyes going to the digital clock on his nightstand. It says that it’s a few minutes past midnight, and Castiel’s voice is a good proof of that; after a whole week of late-night calls, he sounds tired and drained now.

“Is it?” Dean inquires, not really interested in an answer; he’d probably mess it up till the next morning again.

Running on close to no sleep himself, his days are kind of a blur, and with May’s increasingly warm weather he’s given up on keeping up with it all anyway.

“Yeah,” Castiel confirms and the last syllables of the word stretch out in a loud yawn. “Is it okay if I go to sleep?”

Breath hitches at the back of Dean’s throat. Truth be told, it’s never okay when Cas has to end the call; ever since the hallucinations started, Dean’s fear of dozing off, of getting any sleep at all with the risk of waking up thinking he’s drowning in blood again, is nearly crippling. The mere idea of sleep seems threatening to him.

_I’m scared to go to sleep_ , he wants to tell Cas but he never does, worrying that the boy might try to stay up with him, and Dean doesn’t want to be responsible for that. Sleep is nice, God, he misses it, just the peaceful slumber of it, even the feeling of waking up grumpy that he can’t catch a few more minutes hiding in his bed, he misses it all immensely.

_See, he’s abandoning you_ , the voice in Dean’s head sing-songs, the one companion that never seems to need to rest. _What does he care about you anyway? I can’t believe we still haven’t gotten rid of his stupid face._

The voice’s threats towards Cas are mostly the only ones Dean can quiet down or ignore, knowing better. They hurt just the same, though.

“’Course,” he forces himself to say, as gently, minus all the passive-aggressiveness that he secretly wants to use. “Don’t wanna keep you up, Cas.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow at school,” Castiel states.

“Sure,” Dean affirms, catching himself before he can blurt out an unprepared _I love you_. He’s wanted to say that for a while now, but somehow it doesn’t seem right; as if even that was a responsibility he can’t place on Cas’ shoulders right now, not with everything that’s going on, or rather, with how everything is stuck in the same place of nothingness, where nothing but Dean’s magic moves.

So he doesn’t say it – instead, he hangs up hurriedly, worried that otherwise the words could slip out of his mouth unnoticed, or he could subconsciously decide to keep Cas up for just five more minutes, and then another five, and then another five, just so that he himself can avoid sleep for as long as possible.

It has been a long week, though. With Friday looming over his head, he can feel the ache of sleepiness and exhaustion in his bones, settling in alongside the spell.

_Just go to sleep, darling_ , the voice says soothingly even though it’s still low and deep, like from the pits of Hell. The endearment is scary, just like its use of _we_ before, and Dean curls up into the smallest ball he can manage with his too long, too heavy limbs, trying to shut out everything, even though he knows the real noise is well and alive inside of his head, inside of his body, attacking his cells, tickling his nerve endings constantly.

He falls asleep to unsettling thoughts -- how is it even possible to have something like this inside of you without dying for it, or because of it?

 

///

 

Dean wakes up just around the time sun is about to go up, the horizon streaked with rosy pink hue. It sneaks past his blinds and shines over his room and it’s genuinely the first thing he notices after he opens his eyes.

Then he notices the rest.

This time, it’s not just his bed sheets and his hands that are covered in blood, though when he looks down at his palms, his fingers are stained with the dried liquid.

The walls of his room, usually just an empty, old white with time slowly chewing away on them, are stained as well. Big streaks of red as if someone, _Dean_ , dragged his fingers all over it. Fingerprints meet in a disturbing pattern, the only unstained spot being the ceiling that Dean couldn’t possibly reach.

Dean blinks, using it as his only defense mechanism, but when he reopens his eyes, the state of the room is unchanged. Wherever he looks, blood welcomes him.

_Look what we did_ , the voice inside his head whispers in a pleased tone and Dean can practically feel it scratching at his brain, preventing him from shaking it all off.

“This ain’t real,” he says in a shaky voice, getting out of his bed and running his trembling hands over his face, bringing the taste of metal right up to his nose, rubbing it all over his eyes and forehead. Standing in the middle of the room, he spins a circle; the spines of his books, the TV screen, all of it is bloodied, stained, unholy.

He tries blinking again, naïve as it is, but it’s to no avail; even if it isn’t real, the spell in him, the _thing_ in him wants him to see, take a good hard look.

It takes him a few seconds to realize that the walls aren’t just covered in random streaks of blood; as if that wasn’t horrifying enough, he finally notices that the blood forms words. Not whole sentences, just filth scribbled with hasty fingers all over the white paint, as if someone wanted to try finger-painting or needed to leave an urgent message, scribbling it on a mirror with lipstick and breaking it in the process.

The voice in his head stays silent, as if it wanted Dean to take it all in in his own time; and he does, he does.

 

 

 

 

_Filthy  
Animal_

_Scratch out of your fucking guts? Out of your fucking mind?_

_Blood on your_  
_Hands_  
_Darling sweetpea_

_Kill murder kill murder murder kill kill murdered_  
_You are_  
_We are_  
_Murderers!!!_

 

 

_Exploding!! Out of your_  
_Fucking_  
_Mind_  
_Fucking. Mind!!_

_Kill!! Want to_  
_Blood_  
_MURDER_  
_I’VE GOT YOU_  
_LOOK AT YOU_  
_DARKNESS_  
_BLOOD_  
_MURDER_  
_YOU ARE DARKNESS_

_BLOOD_

_MURDER_

 

 

“No,” Dean whispers and drops to his knees, unable to keep looking any longer, burying his face in his hands no matter how stained, how dirty they are, because after all, they’re his hands and they’re the only sanctuary he has, the only thing he can run to, his only home now. His hands, with blood underneath the fingernails and with a history to tell; they are his only home and he melts into them, covers his face with, hoping the rest will just go away if he can only shut the world away and forget.

He wants to forget so bad.

_You are darkness blood and murder!_ The voice inside his head reminds him and it laughs, it laughs at him; Dean can tell, without any proof, that this is the final moment before the magic has truly settled and become him, taken over his body and mind. He can’t know how long this moment will be, but it feels like it will be all over within minutes.

He sobs into those palms, a dry and ugly sound that rips his throat apart because the monstrosity of it cannot break through in full force.

His composure falls; he sits down on his heels and cries, the first awful tears of this, because he can’t hold them in any longer. The worst part, aside from the blood covered walls, which at this point could be perfectly real? The worst part is the one vicious thought swarming around his head, as if carried by wind: Maybe he truly is _this_.

Bela said – Bela said that if the spell ended in the wrong hands, this would happen. Dean should have known from the start that his hands were wrong and crooked, just like his thinking.

The worst part of this is the crippling thought that maybe this is all he has ever been; just a murderer in his very core, waiting for a moment to finally come out and play. What if that’s the whole truth of it, and the spell is simply bringing out what he really is? What if he deserves it, what if, what if?

His hands slip down his face, nails digging into his skin and ripping his freckles apart, leaving red paths between them, all the way down to his trembling skin. The world is just as grey as ever, but he feels dead inside; if someone were to walk in right now, they would see a corpse struggling to get up, with dead eyes cast upwards to – to – to maybe live, except Dean doesn’t know whether that’s possible at all now.

It takes him several minutes to find the courage to open his eyes and look again, worried that the voice will start screaming all over again, that the words written on the walls in his very own handwriting will scream at him as well.

But, of course, the walls are just an ugly white when Dean finally dares a glance. His hands are perfectly clean; not a drop of filth on them, not even a speck. His sheets are white, his room is in order, there’s no sign of what he just saw – and he did see it, he saw it as if it was real. He _doubted_ , that’s how real it was.

He moves again, lying down and staying there motionless, staring up at the ceiling without a word.

Maybe he should tell Mom and Dad, and Sammy, he thinks suddenly, because it seems like this won’t end well for him, and they might as well know.

_But you’ll have to kill them first_ , the voice slips into his ear and Dean laughs a desperate laugh because this time, he doesn’t know how to ignore the words. They are all it takes for Dean to feel anger and the urge to kill bubbling up in him.

“I wish,” he says into the empty room, not even realizing he’s talking to an idea, not caring. “I wish this didn’t happen.”

It almost feels normal, he realizes. After all, the first time the voice spoke to him, Dean wasn’t even surprised; almost as if he had expected it from the very beginning.

He picks himself up from the floor when it’s time to get ready for school, still feeling like a living corpse. And he’s got every intention to not tell anyone about this, not even Cas; because this, this was too much, and admitting it to anyone would mean that it’s far too real, that it really happened.

“How ‘bout you walk to school alone today, huh,” he tells Sam when he refuses to have breakfast with them and not waiting for an answer, walks out of their pretty, completely normal family life.

It’s not really because he wants to be alone; it’s because he’s scared he might hurt Sam on the way.

 

///

 

With Cas’ fingers entangled with his a few mornings later, Dean feels almost normal, even though at this point, it’s hard not to go about anything without wanting to punch things and people. Castiel calms him down somehow; Dean doesn’t quite understand it, but perhaps it’s the affection he’s always felt towards him, since day one.

He even cracks a smile when they get to the girls, standing by Bela’s locker while she puts her stuff in so she doesn’t have to bother with it over lunch.

“I absolutely do _not_ want to wear a dress,” they can hear Charlie say as they approach them. “So I’m suggesting, I wear a pretty suit-ish thing and you do the whole dress thing.”

“Well, I would have suggested that myself,” Bela tells her, placing one last textbook over the growing pile in her locker before shutting it close and turning around, leaning against the lockers with her back. “Hello, boys,” she says when she sees them walking up to them. “We were just talking about prom. You going?”

“Eh,” Dean shrugs his shoulders. “You headed to the music room?”

“Nope,” Charlie says, speaking up for the first time in at least a few days around Dean; after the ‘big reveal’ when Bela told her, she kind of shut in on herself and didn’t communicate much, not even around her group. It’s sort of relieving to see that she’s back again, if only Dean could care about that right now. “There’s a prom related thing held at the cafeteria in about three minutes ago, so we should actually go.”

Castiel next to him just nods but as the girls are about to slip by them, Dean catches Bela’s elbow with his free hand, not paying attention to the amount of force he puts into it.

“Ow, watch it,” she hisses, not managing to pull out of the grip until Dean releases her with a frown on his face. The voice laughs at his confusion. “What?”

“Did you find anything?” he barks at her, as if annoyed by default, only calming down when Cas’ fingers squeeze around his, telling him to settle, to remember that Bela isn’t Zach and she’s doing all she can; that she’s not the enemy.

Her expression softens after he asks, even though she does seem to take a step back towards Charlie, holding her arm close to herself. “Not yet. But I’m still looking, okay?”

“You gotta find something,” Dean grumbles, dissatisfied; if only she knew that the magic is in the home stretch, that it will only take one snap, which is not an uncommon occurrence these days, and it will take over him. Yeah, he hasn’t told them; what’s the point, anyway? Either Bela finds something or she doesn’t, end of story.

She nods, her brow furrowed. “I know, Dean. I swear I’m doing all I can.”

Charlie seems to have taken Cas’ position, holding Bela’s hand as if trying to protect her. “Maybe you could, um, contact that witch person that got you into all this?” she suggests, her eyes wide as if she was walking on ice, worried it could break any second, her glance snapping from Dean’s to Cas’ and back to Bela’s.

Bela herself doesn’t seem too thrilled about it, but she nods anyway. “Yeah, maybe. I’ll find something.” She briefly catches Dean’s forearm as she and Charlie leave, her touch incredibly soft in comparison to his painful grip.

“Music room, then?” Castiel suggests after a few seconds, but Dean pulls away from him, leaning against the lockers and throwing his head back, hard enough to break his skull – but he can’t feel the pain of it, as if the magic protects him.

“Just give me a sec,” he sighs, hopeless.

The task of pulling away and dragging their feet up the stairs to get to the music room would have probably taken a lot longer if it weren’t for Zach and Raphael, not directly approaching them but still managing to yell at Dean if there’s anything at all in his ‘retarded brain’. It’s a sick thought, but it passes Dean’s mind: _Good, at least they’ve let Cas and Anna go_.

“Ugh, go away,” Castiel says after the group as it passes them and continues down the hall, with a disgusted expression on his face. If Cas ever doubted being a Gryffindor, what with not being reckless enough to get in an actual fight, it’s stunts like this that prove it; Dean could never do that without the spell pushing him forwards. Every word seemed like a too big provocation, but that never scared Cas; in a way, he always stood up to them, and even now, Dean admires that, despite everything. Plus, he’s always been awfully stubborn about it.

In fact, Dean would give a lot to be like that. To be anything but what he is now.

They eventually get to the music room, even though it’s halfway through the lunch break by that time; the couch is occupied by some of the actual, you know, music folk, so they drag two chairs towards the corner of the room, where they probably won’t be noticed.

Castiel brings out his lunchbox, offering Dean a peach and a ham and cheese toast, but Dean offers a quick “’M fine, thanks,” in refusal.

“So, were you serious?” Castiel asks after a few bites of said toast, the chair creaking underneath him as he moves to turn to Dean.

“’Bout what?”

“You know,” Castiel says playfully, his tongue peeking out to nib at the remnants of toast in the corner of his mouth, and all Dean wants is to kiss him. “About the prom and all. _Eh_ , really?”

Dean shrugs, tearing his eyes away from that sinful mouth and looking down instead, at his palms resting flat against his thighs. “I s’pose. Did you want to go?”

Castiel mirrors the shrug. “Not really. I would have only said yes if you asked me with a bouquet and a promise of a black limo. I don’t care about proms, really.”

“Maybe I should have done that,” Dean notes, suddenly feeling guilty even for this; not only has he ruined everything (he might be busy trying not to listen to the voice trying to tell him to kill someone, but he still knows that this is not the relationship they would have had if it weren’t for the spell), but he failed to do even this small little thing. His head is swarming with maybe’s: maybe he should have enjoyed Christmas more last year instead of being a Grinch about it; maybe he should have studied so if anything goes wrong with him at least he wouldn’t go feeling this stupid; he should have kissed Cas more, loved him more, proved it differently.

“No, it’s okay,” Castiel retaliates quickly, placing his hand on Dean’s thigh comfortingly even though he’s still half-busy eating. “I really don’t care.”

_You know what you should have done?_ The voice sounds around his head, _Killed this stupid idiotic motherfucker who claims to love you but won’t even go to a stupid dance with you. Why don’t you take that butter knife he carries with him because he’s so fucking weird and just drive it through his neck? You know you could. You know we could._

“I just don’t think I’d be good company,” Dean whispers, not even able to hear himself over the constantly shouting voice in his head. “What if I’m just going crazy?” he adds in a mumble.

Castiel squints, like he always does when he doesn’t completely understand something, be it a mathematical problem or something Dean says. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what if it’s not the spell, what if I’m just literally going crazy?” he repeats again, louder this time but careful not to shout so that other people in the room won’t overhear. “I mean, there’s literally a crazy voice _in my head_ telling me to kill things. Maybe I should just be locked up or something.”

Castiel’s fingers, still somewhat greasy from the food, find Dean’s easily and cradle them gently in a soft hold. “Dean, you can’t think like that.”

“But what if that’s what it is?” he insists, as if going insane would be a better option than this. But maybe it would be, maybe then he’d at least know that there might be a cure or something to keep the voice at bay, to stop all of this madness, to prevent him from dreaming about murder and waking up in boiling hot blood.

Castiel shakes his head resolutely. “I don’t know _how_ I know, but I just, I just do. I know it’s just the magic, and once Bela finds a spell to reverse it, everything will be fine. And we’ll have the best summer of our lives, I swear.”

It elicits a smile from Dean; it sits shyly on his mouth, barely stretching his lips. He wants to believe that so badly, but with the voice, with the magic laughing at him yet again, it all seems very improbable.

Brushing his thumb over the back of Cas’ hands, the softest thing he can do with his heavy, killer arms, he sighs. “What if it’s too late then? Or what if she doesn’t find anything? What if I’ve killed someone by that point?”

Castiel seems to falter underneath this suggestion. “I just can’t see you doing that,” he says, but that’s because he can’t even imagine the things Dean sees on a daily basis, the thoughts that occupy his mind nearly every waking second. “Is it really that bad?”

Dean shakes his head quickly, his movements jerky. Shoulders tensed and up, he closes his eyes for a second. “Never mind. Eat your lunch.”

Castiel’s fingers pull away from Dean’s hold and go up the back of Dean’s arm, until they’re brushing against the soft skin of Dean’s wrist, hiding just underneath the long sleeve of his plaid overshirt. “Tell me,” he mumbles, all food forgotten; even the people in the room feel like they’re not really there, like they’re just maquettes.

Dean wants to hide away; the world seems like a threatening place, and even Castiel’s sincere interest mixed with worry is somewhat terrifying. The thing is, though, that he hasn’t been able to hide away from _anything_ lately as it’s all inside of him, so… so he might as well just do that, he might as well just tell Cas, it won’t change anything anyway.

“It’s that bad,” he admits in a small voice, his shoulders falling now. But as long as Castiel is touching him, just a slight caress of his fingers on the hot pulse spot on Dean’s wrist, perhaps it will be okay. “I keep seein’ things. The voice, it really. It sure does keep tellin’ me to go off and just kill the world. It’s all over me, that voice, it’s everywhere. Hear it in my sleep, can hear it right now. It never goes away and I feel like – I feel like it’ll take hold of me for good and I won’t be able to control it anymore. I just...” Dean takes a long deep breath, his eyelids shutting to protect him from the world at least like this. “I wish I’d never let Bela do the stupid spell. I’m so fuckin’ scared, Cas.”

Strangely quiet, Castiel simply pulls Dean in, his arms over his shoulders. They’re getting weird looks now, but Dean couldn’t be bothered to notice.

He is a child in Cas’ arms; weeping and small and terrified, all the more so now that he knows there are worse things than imaginary monsters hiding underneath your bed. Stephen King was probably right, then, after all, when he said that the real monster is lurking inside of you, not under any piece of furniture. Dean can sure attest to that.

For a second, he’s expecting Cas to word his comfort, say that Bela will find the reverse spell, repeat that cheesy, cheesy line about the best, the perfect summer, but Dean’s words seem to have left him speechless.

They’re still sitting there when the bell finally rings, and if skipping didn’t prove to be a miserable experience a few weeks ago, they would probably go for it again. Relishing in the sudden quiet of the moment, it physically hurts Dean to have to get up and get to his next class.

_Harry Potter marathon on prom night? We can dress up if you want._ Castiel texts him halfway through the class, as if not being able to hold each other proved to be impossible; as if it meant letting all the ugly thoughts in.

Dean remembers how happy it made him all the way back when Castiel invited him over for the first time; and he is surprised to feel complete numbness at the prospect now.

_IDK_ , he texts back with clumsy fingers, probably making Cas worry even more.

As always, there are no words. Castiel doesn’t even send a sad smiley in response, as he usually would have. Things are screwed; royally, and for good.

_I told you we should have ripped his throat out,_ the voice tells Dean somewhat impatiently as his mood gets down even lower.

Finally, he recognizes its low drawl; the voice is his own.

 

///

 

Prom is the last weekend of May, and even though Dean hears hushed talk about it from Charlie and Bela from time to time, mostly he’s done with it. Sometimes, he wants to yell at them both to maybe do something better with their time, but ultimately he zones out whenever it comes up, even though it means shutting himself in with only the voice in his head.

The dance itself is not important to him and by the time the last week before it rolls around, the weather hot and heavy like actual matter descending full-weight on their shoulders, he really doesn’t care.

Mary has tried to talk him into it, but John dismissed it as ‘I know these things ain’t as important to guys as they are to girls, so.’

(John should probably hear the boys at school talk about it like it’s the most important thing to happen to them ever since starting high school; maybe that would change his opinion.)

Either way, Dean gets out of it without problem and he manages to forget all about it.

The first time it comes up that makes him actually acknowledge it since his conversation with Cas is when he’s taking his History textbook out from his locker to take it home so he can cram for a pop quiz, the last one before finals (even though there’s zero chance he’ll be able to focus), and Ruby, of all people, walks up to him.

She leans against the lockers, perhaps trying to look seductive, curling the dark locks of her hair around her fingers as she considers him.

“So, do freaks go to prom?” she asks him casually, and Dean’s not exactly sure how to respond to that.

Firstly, there’s the voice telling him to just grab her by the hair and scalp her, and secondly – hey, it’s not like she’s never seen him and Cas holding hands somewhere. This entire encounter makes no sense, so even though he finds himself agreeing with the voice, he just stares at her, speechless, one hand still outreached towards the locker.

“’Scuse me?” he amends when she just keeps on looking at him like she’s never seen anything like him before (which, okay, she probably hasn’t, what with the spell and all, but it’s not like she knows about that crap).

She smiles, looking almost like a patient mother. “Do. Freaks. Go. To. Prom?” she asks again, making a pause after every word as if she understood his trouble with comprehending what people are saying and was actively trying to make it easier for him.

Blood rushes into Dean’s face, making him look like he’s actually blushing with Ruby’s attention glued to him, even though in reality it’s just anger flaring up and heating up his skin.

_Slammm her against the locker_ , the voice tells him in a hissing voice, _his_ voice, fuck, it’s _his voice_ , he can’t seem to be able to remember that. _Skinnn her. Huh? Sound nice, don’t it?_

“I don’t know,” he squeezes out through gritted teeth. “Are you going? That’s your answer right there.”

It takes a while for Ruby to really understand what he’s saying, but when the bulb finally lights up above her head, she doesn’t look very pleased. She frowns and the stupid smile disappears off her face. The only thing left of her casual composure is that she’s still leaning against the lockers, except she looks stone-cold now, like she wouldn’t be able to move even if she wanted to.

She tugs at her hair angrily and finally lets it go, crossing her arms across her chest instead. “You’re being very mean, freak.”

“Fuck off,” he grumbles and finally regains his _own_ composure, taking out the textbook and angrily slamming the locker shut, almost breaking the lock in the process it bangs hard against the hinges.

She tsk-s, shaking her head, her dark wavy hair rolling around her face in emphasized dismissal. “Here I thought I’d do you a favor and take you so you don’t have to spend the evening crying your eyes out.”

“I wouldn’t – ”

“But you know, we’d still just go _Carrie_ on your ass and dump a gallon of pig blood on you. That would sure bring out the color of your eyes. You know, we should actually do that.”

Dean inhales sharply, his nostrils flaring in anger as well. He keeps his eyes wide open, because he knows that if he were to blink, they would turn black instantly; he’s that angry.

_SLAM THE TEXTBOOK OVER HER HEAD. Skin her. No epidermis would sure bring out the color of her STUPID EYES, WHORE._

_“_ Even if I were so desperate,” he says, trying to push every single angry fiber of his body, every single part of him that wants to just straight out kill her, right here in the middle of the school hallway, into his words. It’s tearing him apart, knowing that those words will never be able to cause as much damage as his fists would. “I would _never_ go anywhere with such a stupid fucking bitch. Now fuck off before I punch your makeup mask off.”

She seems to retreat, as if remembering that he might not be kidding; after all, it did take weeks for the bruises on Gordon’s neck to finally fade away. And maybe it’s something in Dean’s eyes, clear and certain, that tells her that he would not hold back; that he would take his fist and slam it against her face without hesitation.

Before she finally leaves him alone, taking a step back, she adds, “You know how you make me feel, Winchester?” With a raised eyebrow, she makes a dramatic pause before imitating the sound of violent vomiting. She gives him the finger and then finally walks off.

_We should have kept her! We should have ripped her apart limb by limb! We should have pulled out her nails, we should have poked her eyes out! Let’s run after her, let’s break her._

Dean leans against the lockers himself and rubs his face, trying to keep the words at bay and ignore them. He doesn’t know how exactly he managed not to snap; his body feels like it’s swollen, the skin tense over the bigger-than-normal bones and muscles, hurting him it’s so stretched. It’s like a final stand; he can practically feel the final explosion prickling at his nerves, and he holds on to himself all the tighter, because he knows that once it happens, he will be no more.

Funny thing is, it almost feels like his reaction to Ruby was kind of adequate.

He laughs at this, wondering when it will happen – the moment where he’ll finally recognize the voice in his head without any initial trouble, and he’ll agree with it wholeheartedly.


	10. june

_i am burning but never consumed_  
_determined with nothing to lose_  
_i am who i am who i am who i am_  
_who am i?_

wreak havoc | angelspit

 

 

Castiel leads the way as they descend the stairs to Charlie’s basement. The space is as cramped as always, the air heavy and humid despite the sun not being able to sneak in due to the whole no-windows situation. The girls are already there, sitting opposite each other on the old coach, but when they notice Dean and Cas, they get up without a world and sit on the cushions scattered across the floor in an unorganized circle.

“Hey,” Castiel says for the both of them, Dean silent by his side. He sinks down onto one of the pillows, rubbing his palms against his pants absent-mindedly, only half-aware of the other people in the room for a second.

With June rolling around, the voice in his head has grown even more vicious, attacking everything around Dean even without an impulse to set it off. It’s always awake now, always talking in Dean’s ear.

“Hey guys,” Charlie greets them, Bela silent much like Dean.

It used to feel like sitting around the oval table when they were like this, all together in their crooked bubble. Now it feels like a never ending circle that Dean cannot escape; no matter where he turns, they are watching him intently, at least he thinks they are, just watching for something that would show them just how insane he is.

_We should have them for dinner,_ the voice suggests, almost compassionate. _What do you think their livers would taste like? Which one of them should we cut up first?_

“Want something to drink? I’ve got Coke and soda and stuff,” Charlie chirps away, a fake smile plastered on her face.

“No, thanks,” Castiel refuses politely. Dean leans into him, much like Castiel did back when he showed up with that split lip. My God, that was such a long time ago; it was eons ago, it was back when Dean didn’t feel so tired and used and abused.

_And don’t we remember how pretty the blood looked on him? We could have drunk it up right off his lips! He’d have let us, even back then, sweet idiot. But the blood, the blood looked so nice on him, so sweet, like ambrosia. We should have licked it all off! Break his skin now break his skin and drink it all now we’ve still got time._

Dean clears his throat as if afraid that the voice has appeared beside him and has been saying all this out loud, all of Dean’s thoughts out in the open, because they _are_ his thoughts, aren’t they? They sure feel like they are.

Suddenly, he establishes eye contact with Bela; they catch each other looking and don’t let go for a long moment, probably thinking back to when everything was easy and this wasn’t something they had to deal with, when Dean wasn’t a probable psychopath on the loose. He’s starting to feel like that; why would they have to hold meetings about it otherwise?

Because, yeah, this is what it is. Bela catching Dean by his sleeve as if touching him directly could be infectious and asking him to come over to Charlie’s, saying she had something.

As always, it’s unexpected, and if Dean already wasn’t set apart, the familiar seed of anxiety would plant itself in his stomach again. It feels like he doesn’t really have space for that anymore.

“So uh,” he starts, rubbing his hands over his legs once again because they keep getting sweaty, still looking at her, “what did ya find?”

Is he hoping for a cure, for a reverse spell? Dean desperately searches for an emotion at least resembling hope inside of himself but comes up empty.

_Carve yourself up? Oh oh oh do we want to carve ourselves up and search? Let’s carve ourselves up! Let’s!_

“I…” Bela starts, then trails off and finally breaks the eye contact, looking over at Cas and then next to her to Charlie, looking for support. Charlie drops her gaze, though, as if afraid of what’s coming next. Good thing Dean couldn’t find that piece of hope in him, huh? “I did, but it’s not – I’m afraid it’s not good.”

“What does that mean?” Castiel snaps, impatient, his eyes wild. Dean smirks, recognizing the rage as his own, although he can’t remember the pureness of it, the kind of rage that flows through you when it’s almost reasonable, not tainted by magic in any way.

“I contacted Meg,” Bela continues and she looks down at her lap as well, her hands joined there, fingers trembling and constantly moving, smoothing up the fabric of her pants or intertwining. “I don’t have good news, seriously.”

“Spit it out,” Dean urges her before Castiel can, and okay, at least they’re all together here, at least it’s not just Dean.

“There is no reverse spell, unfortunately,” she breathes out, with obvious trouble.

It’s not really surprising, to be completely honest. Well, at least Dean is not surprised, he can’t speak for the others.

The strange thing is, the voice seems quiet now, in agreement. We’re stuck here together forever, darling, it seems to say in its quiet retreat, the first moments of calmness it offers Dean in months.

“Okay,” Castiel murmurs, apparently not getting it. “But there’s gotta be something else.”

“There isn’t,” Dean says harshly without tearing his eyes away from Bela. Her head snaps up at Dean’s rough words, and they exchange another glance, not as prolonged as the one before but still as clear as the sky on a clear June day.

_Please don’t hurt me, please don’t kill me_ , her eyes seem to say, and for the first time since that awful hallucination in Dean’s room, Dean is scared. That’s legitimate fear hiding in Bela’s eyes; Bela, so courageous and confident and upfront about everything, scared of her oldest friend. In a way, it does put things in a new perspective; it’s only been the bad guys staring at Dean like he’s the Antichrist, his friends always by his side, but Bela’s got the same worry written on her face now. _Please don’t hurt me_ , her eyes beg as she seems to lean back, inching away from Dean even though there are still a few feet parting them.

“There isn’t,” she agrees quietly when she sees that Dean’s not going to launch forward and start choking her.

He wouldn’t. Because right now, in this very second, it’s just him, alone in his head, terrified. The voice, after all, is satisfied; the magic as well. It purrs inside him like a happy cat getting an ear-rub. Why should he feel like killing her if she’s the one responsible for this (albeit by proxy)?

“What do you mean there isn’t?” Castiel presses, looking now even at Charlie as if she had the answer up her sleeve, like maybe Bela is just trying to withhold it from them.

Bela shakes her head, finally relaxing a little, tucking stray locks of hair behind her ears and out of her face. She looks at Cas almost defiantly.

“Without a reverse spell, I can’t get rid of the magic. And there’s no reverse spell.”

“What if you just said the spell backwards?” Castiel suggests, even though he has no experience with magic, even though he knows he’s just talking nonsense. “Maybe if he did the knife thing with the bowl again? Maybe if we found the counterpart to those herbs you used? Maybe if you just tweaked the word order in the spell?”

“Cas,” Dean speaks up, resting his hand over his elbow as gently as he can.

But Castiel isn’t done yet, not quite. “What if you made your own spell? I’m sure you could do it if you tried, I mean, didn’t you say you were good at this? Or maybe there’s an old book that not even Meg knows about and you could get it from there, we just need to find it first?”

“Castiel,” Dean says again, choosing his full name for the first time in who knows how long. The boy looks up at him, a clearly angered expression on his face. He looks at Dean like he doesn’t understand him, like he’s unable to figure out his attitude.

Dean wants desperately to comfort him, but as always, he doesn’t have the words. Cas’ shoulders slump as if he understands anyway.

“I can’t do any of that,” Bela explains patiently, which Dean hasn’t seen from her in literally ages. Even her forehead is creased in worry. “Magic is a precise art. I can’t make up a spell to reverse one that’s hundreds of years old.”

“Well, maybe,” Charlie peeps up for the first time, looking up at her girlfriend just like Cas did a moment ago, “Maybe Meg could? I don’t know, you said she has a lot more experience.”

Bela sighs, the only sign of exasperation. “You don’t understand. Even getting the spell done was difficult, because it’s not a commonly available one, it’s a custom one and it’s old. Let me tell you something about magic.” She pauses, but no one shows any sign of interest. “If I were to make a really complicated spell that I’d want to use once, the most important parts of it are my own thought process, just the process in general. Not just writing down some words!”

“Where’d you even get the spell?” Dean asks, almost laughing at how he should have asked this before he got it done but it never occurred to him that it could be important.

“A very old witch’s diary. They killed her before she could get the spell done; it’s a one time thing, and it took a _lot_ to even get it working.”

“We’re very thankful for that,” Castiel comments sarcastically, his face scrunched up.

“Hey, if you want to blame someone, your boyfriend’s sitting right next to you,” Bela counters, her eyes glowing with her magic.

Dean’s own sparks up at that, but it’s still quiet enough for Dean not to snap. “Stop,” he tells them, and even though he knows it’s pretty much out of fear now, the fact that they listen and shut their mouths is pleasing enough. The only remnant of the slowly brewing fight is Castiel’s scowl and Charlie’s worried look. Bela, as always, looks like nothing happened.

“I’m really sorry, Dean,” she says, completely ignoring the past few minutes. “I don’t know what else to tell you.”

“But what happens now?” Castiel asks yet again, as if he still couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that this is _it_ , nothing happens now except for the end, which will happen sooner rather than later.

Bela looks from Dean to Cas and back. “I can’t do anything.”

“Maybe you _will_ be like Hulk,” Charlie tries to joke, offering a small smile, even though it’s a miracle that she’s addressing Dean directly. “You know, go big and angry every now and then but live a normal angsty life otherwise.”

But Charlie doesn’t understand. She doesn’t know that this is nothing like that; she can’t possibly comprehend how big the spell is, how it’s taken over, how his own voice whispers poison to him and he can’t do anything. He won’t snap every now and then; he’ll just snap once and that will be it, no way to come back from that.

“Can I talk to Bela for a second?” Dean asks, sounding polite as he hasn’t in weeks, not even around his parents or teachers. Cas exchanges a worried look with him but ultimately, after murmuring in agreement, both he and Charlie get up and leave the basement to ‘get some snacks.’

It’s with worry when Dean looks Bela in the eye again, but her initial fear seems to have disappeared. If anything, she looks at him apologetically, like she can’t find the right words either; which is a struggle Dean can understand.

“Remember how you did that magic trick back then,” he mumbles but his voice is incapable of making it a question.

“You mean when I manipulated your emotions?”

“Yeah, that,” Dean nods.

“What about it?”

“Can you do it again?”

“I don’t know if that’s – ”

“Please?” Dean prompts, his voice finally complying. “Just for a few seconds. I’ve been so – God,” he groans and, sitting on the floor, momentarily hides his face behind his hands. “I’ve been just fucking unhappy ever since the spell started acting up, you know? And knowing that it won’t get any better, I just want that last moment, y’know?”

Bela shifts and scoots over, sits opposite him and takes his hands in hers, much like when they did the spell. She looks vulnerable and small like this, looking up at him with big wide eyes. Perhaps all the things she doesn’t know how to say are in that glance, but Dean can’t decipher them. It’s comforting, though, that it doesn’t feel like pity. If anyone understands magic it’s Bela, after all, even though not even she could understand the enormity of this.

“I’m so sorry,” she repeats, and he hasn’t seen her act this sincere since probably that night she told him she might have a crush on this really cute new girl. He smiles at that memory.

What’s it like for her, he wonders; her parents are always away and she doesn’t like opening up, never has, so what does it feel like to lose a best friend, what must that be like for her?

“I’m sorry too,” he mumbles.

At least they’re not blaming each other, right? Right?

Without a warning, Dean can feel a pang of warmth pulse from Bela’s hands as she utters a few quick words, and there comes the feeling again.

The spell in him tries to protest, but he closes his eyes and manages to shout over it, manages to accept whatever she’s giving him.

Floating, that’s what it feels like. Big colorful fireworks exploding behind his eyelids, like when he was just a kid and his parents let him go watch the Fourth of July celebration with Sammy. His chest swells underneath the pressure, but it’s the good kind; it’s like when Cas lies on top of him and plays with his hair, it’s like getting to rest after a very long day. Dean’s body falls limp, his palms just resting in Bela’s, and he sighs.

This is happiness. It feels like snow on his burning hot cheeks, it feels like a first kiss. It fills his chest to the brim and it reminds him of autumn and spring and even summer.

Floating, that’s what it feels like, _yes_. It’s like he can see the whole world underneath him, peaceful and friendly, and he can feel his lips stretching in a genuine, careless smile. A laugh almost bubbles up his throat; Bela’s fingers squeeze around his for a moment and he feels warm both inside and out, and so careless, so light. He hasn’t felt this light in months.

When she finally lets go, after the feeling of happiness so pure it’s almost unbearable, emptiness fills him whole and it feels like he could burst. There are tears in his eyes.

“Thank you,” he whispers, looking down quickly to wipe them away; he doesn’t want anyone to see. His chest already feels like a giant black hole, he feels like he’s gained weight.

Bela squeezes his knee reassuringly. “I don’t think I’m going to stop looking,” she tells him as Cas’ and Charlie’s feet sound on the stairs.

So that’s what it feels like, losing a friend; like looking for hope despite knowing that there is none.

 

///

 

With his cheek pressed against Cas’ naked chest, well, the world still seems like a violent threatening place, but at least Dean can close his eyes and hide from it. Like this, being held and feeling spent, that’s the only quiet he really gets.

“Did I tell you,” Castiel starts, idly brushing his fingers through Dean’s sweat damp hair, and Dean seriously worries for a second that the dreaded love confession is about to happen; but then it doesn’t. “That I’m as bad as Charlie when it comes to graduation?”

“What do you mean?” Dean asks, too sleepy to really register what they’re talking about.

“I’m counting days.”

“I thought you weren’t looking forward to it, y’know, worrying about the future and all.” _Because the future is just blood for us, ain’t it? Just rivers of it, so we can finally go for a swim. God, we just can’t wait to drown in all the blood, eh?_

Castiel shrugs, his skin brushing against Dean’s. As if they were in the worst cliché movie ever, he brushes his thumb over Dean’s shoulder absent mindedly. “Well, yes. But it means more time with you.”

_He’s offering more chances to tear his head off, aw, how sweet of him. Shall we open him up with scissors when the time comes?_

Dean buries his nose into Cas’ chest; no use trying to silence the vicious voice of his, it’s pointless anyway. It never shuts up now, just always makes Dean itch and his fingers twitch. He’s almost used to it, ambivalent about its existence, almost accepting it. At least _that_ fact still manages to scare him, although not as much as it used to.

“But then you’ll be gone for college,” he whines, but it doesn’t sound as genuine as he’d like it to; after all, it’s hard to fake this, especially when it feels like he won’t even live till the end of their summer break.

“I’ll always come back,” Castiel muses under his breath, his fingers tighter, reassuring across Dean’s hot skin.

As much as he fears the idea of _I love you_ s, as much as they seem selfish and unimportant, so small compared to what he actually feels towards Castiel, it seems as if not saying it is actually more selfish.

Dean can’t bring himself to do it, though. He ponders this for long minutes on end, going over it in his head again and again, half-focused. His mouth seems to be incapable of shaping around those words, no matter how true they ring when he thinks them. Loving Cas, Dean knows, is as selfish as selfishness goes; it feels like he’s caused him nothing but pain, but still, Castiel, and yeah, even loving him, is the only thing keeping Dean sane, the only thing that prevents him from snapping.

And he should be able to say that, shouldn’t he? It feels like betrayal, to hold that phrase inside of him instead of letting it out, because after all, what’s truer than this? Has anything ever been truer, except for the spell stirring up inside Dean like an approaching storm?

Yet, every time he opens his mouth to utter those words, he simply cannot.

The only thing he can think of doing is the second worst cliché thing in the world Dean has ever considered doing. And strangely, this is the thing that actually proves to be easier.

His arms draped around Cas’ waist, their legs entangled, as close as they can be, their heartbeats nearly matching, Dean presses his mouth against Cas’ chest, not even an inch separating them.

He starts with a hum, because for some reason, starting to sing out of nowhere seems ridiculous and odd. He can feel the vibration of the humming in his throat, somewhat in sync with the beat of Cas’ heart underneath his parted lips.

Truth be told, he blushes, but it’s not like Cas can see, and this is the best Dean can do.

His voice slips into a melody. _That_ melody, that he’s been wanting to sing like this in nearly every stupid teenage-romance daydream of his. Actually letting the lyrics drop off his lips is a more difficult task, but Dean manages it eventually, still easier than an actual _I love you_. He can just hope – and he does, he does hope – that Cas will understand that’s really what he’s trying to say.

“ _Close your eyes and I’ll kiss you, tomorrow I’ll miss you_ ,” he sings in a raspy, nearly sleepy voice, mutters it against Castiel’s skin. It’s barely audible, still feels like just some strange humming at the back of his throat. But Castiel tenses up, and Dean knows he can hear.

He only mumbles the parts of the lyrics that don’t apply to what he feels, but the part he once texted Cas, back in February when it still snowed (what a wonder that seems to be now), is the most distinct, sung-out one. It’s the chorus, after all, and Dean sings it into Castiel’s skin over and over again, and not even the voice in his head can scream over it.

_All my loving, I will send to you, all my loving, darling I’ll be true_ , he hums again and again, unmoving.

“Me too,” Castiel mumbles when Dean’s litany is finally over, and, okay, it’s not as bad, definitely doesn’t feel as selfish as Dean thought it would; there’s only a glint of guilt in him. “By the way, your singing voice really is awful.”

Dean laughs into Castiel’s skin, trying to sound playful and happy and all the things he’s really not. Castiel pulls him closer, and they simply hold each other, as if it is supposed to be the last time they even get to do this at all.

Dean can hear Castiel’s heartbeat without trouble, a steady, calm rhythm against his ear, and he knows that he would give anything to simply just _be_. To just be a stupid teenager in love, to just be excited about graduating, to simply, yeah, _be_. Because this doesn’t feel like _being._

_Don’t we just want to tear that steadily beating heart out of his chest? And squeeze it? Squeeze it till it pops?_

And how terrible it is, to only half-exist, and not even be able to listen to your lover’s heart.

 

///

 

The park looks abandoned when Dean gets to it shortly after eight in the evening. There is a couple walking just down the sidewalk, but they’re about to walk off the property, so Dean doesn’t count them.

He finds the stupid bench without problem, just silently wondering why it is that he would remember this seemingly unimportant inanimate object. It’s like that with people, though, isn’t it? They form a connection to the stupidest things, like filthy benches that they once sat on, with their future boyfriends, uncertain and scared.

In a way, nothing has changed – Dean is still uncertain and scared. In fact, he’s never been more scared, now that he really thinks about it.

Telling his mom that he’s going out with Cas; telling Cas that he’s going to hang out with Bela, and not even talking to Bela at all, is a lie that would have sat like a heavy weight on his chest only months ago. It feels like home now, the huge fucking chain of lies feels better than anything Dean has done in the past few weeks.

_Do you know what would feel better than lying to them?_  
_Killing_  
 _Them_  
 _Would feel so much better._

Dean knows this, and so he tries to ignore it, but as with most true facts, that’s impossibly hard to do. Lying feels amazing; it feels almost like freedom. And deep down, he knows that killing _them_ or anyone else would feel good too, except better, much better.

Ignoring the voice is not as easy as it once was, though; in fact, it’s getting progressively more difficult with every passing day.

He settles on the bench, right in the middle of it, to prevent himself from feeling like there’s something, someone missing. This moment of solitude is important to him, and missing Cas here, cuddled up next to him in a way so familiar to him now, is a distraction. One that Dean doesn’t need right now.

_Do you know what you need?_

What do I need?

_A pretty, sharp knife. Do you know what you should do with it?_

What should I do with it?

_Carve your name into someone’s spleen, darling._

Dean shudders at the thought, at how pleasing it is to him.

It’s hot outside today; after all, it is slowly nearing the end of June. Time, days seem to fly by him, almost unreal in the consistency of their flow. His fingers itch to be covered in hot blood, but stuffing them in the pockets of his hoodie to get them to warm up doesn’t seem to cover it. They squeeze around the fabric of the pockets, pulling at it harshly, as if yanking on someone’s hair.

It’s not just the voice now. To be honest with himself, which is something that scares him to some degree, the violent thoughts come easily to him even without the voice bringing them on. They are calm in their violence, always suggestive, and Dean honestly – he doesn’t know how to stop his thoughts, when it was usually his thoughts that he used to distract himself from the voice.

This is how it works now: the voice says something ( _When you go to cut up your mother start with the stretch marks on her belly from where she carried you around like a burden for nine months_ ) and his thoughts, instead of running to hide with the love he feels for his mother, agree with the voice wholeheartedly: _The skin would split nicely there, yes,_ they hum.

Leaning forwards and pulling his restless hands out from his pockets, he rests his heavy head in his palms.

The trees rustle underneath the weight of the summer breeze, but otherwise, the whole world seems like a quiet, abandoned wasteland. It’s crowded in Dean’s head, though, one thought after another in a furious rumble that echoes through his mind.

“I hate this,” he says into his hands.

_Good_ , the voice assures him, pleased. _What else do you hate?_

“I hate this,” Dean repeats, and perhaps, if there was any more in him, if he was still anything but the spell working its power on him, maybe he would cry. He can’t be sure; he can’t be sure about anything at this point.

For a short while, as panic briefly rises up in him like the tide, his fingers almost scramble for his phone; he wants to call Bela ( _and tell her what a bitch she is_ ) and ask her, just one last time, even though hope is miserable and naïve, whether there’s anything else they could do, whether she found anything.

But he remembers, quickly enough, that she’s down to trying to create her own spell, and unlike his friends, unlike Cas who still believes that Dean could be _something_ , other than what he is now, Dean remembers the way Bela mocked them for even suggesting this.

He hates this, yes, and he hates the witch who thought it wise to create a spell like this, whatever its original purpose was.

“I hate this,” he says yet again, but he’s alone in the park now, there’s no one except for him who can hear him.

_But what else do you hate?_

Myself.

_Who else?_

Dean ponders the question, as if genuinely interested in answering it as truthfully as possible. He doesn’t really hate, is the thing. He definitely doesn’t hate his family, no matter how vicious his thoughts get around them, and he doesn’t hate his friends; he doesn’t hate Cas. God, he loves him.

Over the course of the past few months, he has come to hate someone, though. Where he should fully blame himself for his situation, he blames Zachariah and his group. And the voice knows it, and offers their heads, still bloody where they were cut off, on plates in his dreams.

(Those dreams? Dean no longer wakes up screaming when they occur, and that is almost daily. He wakes up refreshed, like at least something went right.)

_Your demons are beautiful_ , the voice tells him with an almost dreamy sigh, and perhaps it’s time that Dean stops kidding himself that it’s the voice; perhaps it’s time that he finally calls it _his_ voice, since that is what it really is. _And what do we do with those_?

“We face ‘em,” he mumbles and leans back on the bench, his back leaning against the carved out words decorating the old wood, chipped off in places.

 

///

 

Dean circles the block twice before he makes it back home; his time management is really poor, though, because by the time he walks down the road to his house, their car is already humming to life in the driveway and Cas is standing with Mary and Sam, the two of them dressed nicely, with Cas, of course, in the graduation gown.

“Oh, shit,” he murmurs to himself and quickens up his pace, trying to avoid the frown his mother shoots his way and the questioning look so clear on Castiel’s face.

“Where have you been?” she asks him, ushering him inside the house before he can even exchange a few words with his freaking boyfriend.

Their deal is a simple one – since Anna is one of the teachers, Castiel wasn’t a big fan of getting to the graduation ceremony with her and since they discussed it during dinner at Dean’s house, his parents heard and were quick to offer him a ride. Taking pictures will probably be involved, but Dean doesn’t really care.

“Just walkin’ ‘round,” he mumbles, pulling away from Mary’s touch as she briefly hugs him around his shoulders. She frowns at him but disappears upstairs, taking the stairs by two, to get him some clothes and his own gown.

“You’re not fifteen anymore, you know,” Sam informs him, walking inside the house with Cas in tow. “I’m the one who’s allowed to mope around.”

Dean shoots him a glare, then looks over his head (which is proving to be more and more difficult every day with the guy still growing like a freaking beanstalk) at Castiel.

“Everything okay?” Castiel asks, to which Sam rolls his eyes and shuffles off to the kitchen to grab some more food before they leave the house for who knows how long. Dean wanted it to rain today, just because, but the weather outside is ridiculously hot even though it’s still relatively early on in the day; he does _not_ want to sit through all of this while wearing a heavy black gown.

He nods, though, and even manages a smile; after making that decision back at the park, he has somewhat calmed down. This is a big day, though, probably the biggest, but what’s settling in Dean’s gut isn’t worry or nervousness; it’s an excited thrill.

“I just wanted to walk around a bit,” he tells him and Castiel nods, reassured for the time being. “How can you look so good even in that?” he adds, pointing at Castiel’s gown.

“Well, you all hate the trenchcoat so much that you probably think this is an improvement,” he declares, but it’s with a smile. Dean leans in, running his hands down Castiel’s forearms.

“What are ya wearin’ underneath?” he asks, his tone teasing.

“Shut up,” Castiel silences him, looking over to where John is waiting for them by the car, wearing a suit similar to the one Sam’s been forced into – which is probably why he’s so grumpy and sarcastic.

Before Dean can add anything else, Mary stomps down the stairs and catches Dean’s elbow in her hasty fingers instead, shoving clothes and the gown into his free hand. “Go change. Now. I won’t be late for this stupid graduation ceremony.”

_Oh we could just gouge your eyes out._

Dean sighs but takes hold of everything that’s being handed to him, disappearing into the bathroom. Thankfully, it doesn’t take him as long to change as he would have thought, what with his clumsy hands and all. For his own sake, he avoids looking in the mirror; he just takes a good deep breath before walking out, hoping that everything will go well.

The drive to the school, even though it’s only a few blocks away, proves to be excruciating. The AC in the car stops working because that’s just how luck and Murphy’s laws work, so they roll the windows down, boiling in their own sweat.

Holding hands, Dean and Cas manage to escape Dean’s family once they arrive at the school, only to run into Anna not even a few feet away.

“Oh, you didn’t think you’d hide from me, did you?” she asks playfully and to tease him, she reaches out, smoothing the nonexistent wrinkles on Cas’ gown and pointing at his cap. “You should put that on.”

“Are you trying to make my last high school memories into hell?” he asks her, which makes Dean laugh, the sound nearly genuine. That being said, Castiel does obey and puts the cap on his head, messing up his hair even further. Little does Anna know that these are probably Castiel’s most peaceful moments ever since the stupid bullying business happened; Dean figures that, at least.

“Now you look very nice,” she says with a smile, and if Dean didn’t know her better, he would think she was getting all emotional over this. “You _both_ look very nice,” she adds, looking at Dean as well. Her smile definitely does look proud and genuine.

“Thanks,” Dean says and they hold hands briefly as Anna shakes it in encouragement. This is big, isn’t it? Dean knows it is, even though it’s big for him for different reasons.

Anna is not as persistent as Dean’s family when it comes to escorting them to their places, so Dean and Cas manage to take a quick detour before heading to the ceremony, holding hands the entire time. They find shade near one of the walls of the main building and shuffle over there to not attract heat so much.

Dean leans his back against the cold wall and Castiel stops, standing opposite him, their hands still joined.

“We both look ridiculous,” Dean states now, with a gentle smile playing his lips.

Castiel seems to be speechless for a few moments. “You seem – strangely happy,” he comments in the end, tilting his head a little as if to inspect the situation from a new, fresh angle.

Dean shrugs. “Well, I am.”

“No, I mean…” Castiel trails off, letting a shy smile tug at the corners of his mouth and squeezing Dean’s fingers, “You look like you did before – you know.”

_Really? How rude can you be? Do you want me to cut your tongue out, or just tear it out with my bare hands? I could certainly do that._

Later, later, Dean tells the voice patiently; on the outside, he just sighs and shakes his head, unable to offer a proper answer. “It’s just finally about to be over,” he says, and in a way, that’s not exactly a lie. It definitely qualifies as at least half the truth.

And if he can do anything at all now? It’s a good memory. He wants to create a good memory; for him to remember later, but especially for Cas. Dean doesn’t know how the rest of the story goes, but right now, he wants this to be a good moment. That’s all that matters.

Castiel approaches him, pressing their bodies together, the material of their gowns brushing together. He rubs his nose against Dean’s and leans his forehead against his. “I don’t know what’s going on in that beautiful head of yours, but if you’re getting better? I’m too happy about it to question it.”

Dean smiles, leaning into the touch, bringing Castiel’s hands up to his chest. “Good. That’s good.”

“I’ve missed you,” Castiel admits quietly in an almost small voice, as if he was worried that his honesty would offend Dean in a way, or make him snap again. His eyes drop down, maybe to Dean’s lips, maybe to just avoid eye contact, but their foreheads remain touching despite the heat.

Dean nods. He understands; he misses himself too, and he misses how oblivious they all were, he misses the careless moments. Fake it till you make it, don’t they all say that? He needs to make this happy, and he’s fairly certain that he can fake it.

_I’m still here_ , the voice tells him, but it seems like that’s all it wants to do; just remind him. The spell, now growing over his body like moss or taking it like plague, is still inside him, waiting for its moment, but at least it allows him to enjoy this; it probably knows that its time will come eventually, soon.

Either way, it’s not like Dean could ever forget about its existence, not even through all this; not a minute goes by that he doesn’t blame himself for this, for stealing all the happiness they could have had together. What can they really miss if they’ve never really had it, if Dean took it away?

“I’d sing to you again but I don’t want to ruin the moment this time,” Dean notes.

He closes his eyes the second Castiel kisses him, full on the mouth, licking the sweat off from above Dean’s upper lip, biting down on the bottom one.

Dean relishes in the kiss and tries to melt into it, leaning as much into it as possible without pushing against Cas; preferring being the one pushed against the wall. A sneaky thought crawls into his head; will they get to do this again?

“Do you want to head back?” Castiel asks after he breaks the kiss, some of his weight still against Dean’s chest, looking up at him from no distance at all. Even though they’re standing in the shade, the light of the hot sunny day plays with the blue of Castiel’s eyes, making them stand out against the dark fabric of his graduation gown.

Dean gulps, bringing up his hand awkwardly and moving it for a second before he catches a look at his watch. His only wish is that it would stop right now, but the seconds hand keeps moving on in its trajectory, ticking away steadily. They have barely ten minutes left before the ceremony is supposed to start.

“We probably should,” Dean responds reluctantly.

Castiel’s body is hidden underneath the stupid robe and Dean grabs idly where he thinks his hips are, finally catching them and pulling the boy closer to himself.

“But I’ll steal another kiss first,” he murmurs.

He imagines Castiel in his bed, on top of him, naked and blissfully warm, his hips soft and smooth in Dean’s grip. He imagines skin against skin and mouth against mouth, and he imagines spreading his legs and Castiel sliding in between them and taking him, repeatedly. The night in his fantasy is deep and dark but he can still see clearly when he looks up at Castiel as he thrusts into him; in fact, the world has never been this bright, and that’s when Dean realizes that even in his fantasy, Dean’s eyes have turned black.

Breaking the kiss hastily, he stares at Castiel in surprise, as if scared that he could see into Dean’s mind and watch the entire scene play out, black eyes and all.

“Are you alright?” Castiel asks, his voice soft and gentle, his breath hitting Dean’s still parted lips.

Dean nods. “Never been better. Let’s head back.”

Their hands have grown even sweatier and Dean has to take a moment to come back to reality and deal with the fact that the fantasy was just that, a fantasy. Their fingers intertwine again anyway and they go back the path they came from.

On the quest to find their spots, they pass Zachariah with his family – his parents a lovely looking couple, his sister barely a first-grader; she looks four or five at best. A completely normal family.

Zachariah nods at Dean and Dean nods back shortly.

Thankfully, Castiel never notices that.

 

///

 

The gas station looks eerie when Dean gets to it two nights later. He’s never been fond of abandoned buildings and this place is abandoned alright; just outside of town, its neon lights have long stopped flashing. The windows are broken and the inside of the building looks empty and trashed when Dean takes a look in as he walks around the building for no reason, as if to make sure that nothing shady is going on.

The initially white walls of the gas station have faded into a filthy grey with paint peeling off, uncovering brown, almost black spots underneath, moldy and looking very unhygienic. The fuel dispensers are barely standing, rusty, one of them actually fallen over on the ground, in pieces. If Dean remembers correctly, the gas station stopped functioning nearly fifteen years ago, left to decay.

Even after circling the small one story building, he’s alone; looking at his phone, he realizes that he’s still a few minutes early. He turns the device off after checking.

He crosses the driveway leading towards the gas station, covered in gravel and dust and dry, drying grass and weeds, coming to a halt by the road.

_Oooooh this is certainly exciting. Where are they where are they? Are they late yet do you need to go after them? When will you get to DO IT?_

Dean looks up the road, towards the town, searching for headlights that would cut through the darkness of the approaching night.

His waiting is pointless; he never sees those headlights. They come walking, whoever it is leading them holding a flashlight and blinding Dean for a second, even though the darkness has not descended yet and he can still see nearly perfectly.

_They’re here they’re here can you hear their heartbeats can you smell the fresh blood that will flow SOON can you?_

“Oh, I forgot you don’t really have friends to back you up,” Zachariah says as they all approach him.

Dean smirks, the grimace easy, the most natural thing. He skims over them; they’re all looking very confident about this, because they don’t know, they have no clue that Dean can take them all without trouble. He can kill them all. He wonders whether his eyes reveal that secret, but perhaps not, because all of them, Zachariah, Raphael, Michael and even Gordon (who really should know better) are looking at him like he’s their easy dinner.

(It wasn’t easy to find Zach’s house but he managed to do it, after all there are only so many houses in the fancy part of this town, only so many families with such a fancy car)

“You on the other hand probably wouldn’t even be able to take a shit without your dogs holdin’ your hand, huh?” Dean counters, smug.

“Shut your ugly mouth, freak,” Raphael snaps, obviously personally hurt by the comment. Dean raises his hands in a defensive gesture, like he didn’t say anything, and his face scrunches up.

(“Tuesday near the old gas station. Let’s settle this for good”)

“Where’s your bitch? I mean _Ruby_?” Dean asks, the same smirk playing his voice, and his blood boils in the expectation of what’s about to come, and the voice inside his head just hums and hums in anticipation, eager and excited.

_You’re going to do it aren’t you oh my god finally our time has come you are going to kill them all you are going to FUCK THEM UP huh one after the other where will you start? Which throat will you rip out with your sharp teeth first?_

“Week night,” Michael explains, but he doesn’t seem to worry about it; after all, maybe they think that this is not a battle girls should fight in, and how wrong is thinking like that? “She’s very sorry to miss this, though.”

(“Fine, but we’ll beat you up and leave you to die by the road, I hope you understand that, Winchester”)

(“You wish”)

(“You just wait and see”)

(When the fuck did they become like this? But all the better; at least Dean didn’t have to feel guilty about blaming them, didn’t have to feel guilty about deciding to do this, if he is to kill anyone he’s glad it will be people like this)

(At this point, it’s not a question of whether he will kill anyone, because he will, if he won’t, his guts will explode on him and he’ll die anyway. The pull is too strong, the need is too lethal, he has to obey, he has lost the ability to fight it, and he’s glad it will be these people that will cover his hands in blood)

(Deal with the aftermath later)

“Oh, I’m awfully sorry to hear that,” Dean says, clutching his chest dramatically in fake grief. “Do you want to take this over there,” he gestures towards the abandoned gas station with his thumb, “or should we just do it right here so I can throw you in the ditch after I’m done with you?”

“Oh boy,” Gordon mumbles almost excitedly, rubbing his hands together, “Sure can’t wait to make you see stars.”

“You really should shut up,” Zachariah says in a way that reminds Dean of a snake, or any other animal prepared to strike, so sure of their victory.

When Zach lurches forwards with his fist balled and aimed at Dean’s face, ready to punch him, Dean doesn’t even flinch; he catches Zachariah’s hand without problem, stopping it just as easily, and he squeezes.

_Can you hear the bones breaking?_

Dean’s face scrunches up as his grip tightens and tightens until Zach’s knees buckle and he’s shrieking in pain, making it almost impossible for Dean to hear the bones in his fingers and his palm breaking. But they do give in with a satisfying crack, each and every one of them, and Dean smiles over his grimace, enjoying the pain on the boy’s face.

_You let his hand go and you know why? So that he can fall to the ground and cradle his broken arm like a child and now you sit down on him and grind him down with your weight. Take that broken arm and twist it backwards, the bones breaking out through his skin, filthy up his wounds, rub them in all the dust._

_Take your own fist and ball it up, are you ready, boy? Are you ready, darling?_

_Punch him in the face, repeatedly. His nose is a beautiful fountain of blood, drink from it with your hand, punch a hole in that blank expression. Aim for his eyes, make it hurt, aim for his jaw and break it as well. Don’t you see how beautifully his teeth glisten when you punch them out?_

_All the blood, oh boy, all the blood on your hands. They slip when you cup his face, don’t they? Tighten your grip, but don’t crack his skull just yet, okay?_

“Okay,” Dean breathes out, his chest heaving with labored breaths.

_Now take that stupid head of his and smash it against the ground. Mother Earth can welcome him, huh? His blood can be her river, huh? Slam his stupid head against the dirty road, again and again, he’s not even trying to kick you now, is he? He’s so beautifully limp in your clutch._

_ONE MORE SLAM, DARLING. YOU KNOW THE ROCKS ARE HARD AROUND HERE._

Dean spits in Zachariah’s face after that last slam; that’s exactly what he does, spits right into the plethora of open wounds that is Zach’s skin.

_Oh look at this beautiful dead body look at our creation look at our masterpiece look at him look LOOK!_

Dean does look. It fills him up with pride, even seeing the blood on his hands is satisfying. He licks at his lips, as if trying to taste if there was any of it near his mouth, but he only licks away a few drops of sweat. Turns out killing someone is quite the job.

Still sitting on Zachariah’s dead, lifeless body, Dean looks up.

The night has settled over them; the night is Dean’s best friend. He can see clearly now, no greyness around him; his eyes have turned black and it’s breathtaking, now that he finally lets it sink in, now that he finally accepts it. The world looks beautiful from behind the dark curtain of his vision; the blood a color he never knew before, so rich in its redness he really does want to drink from it.

He looks up at the other boys and he laughs, the sound bubbling up from his lungs freely, like someone who has been held a prisoner for the longest time, and it’s finally free; the laugh echoes through the night, and it feels – it feels exactly like when Bela made him feel happy. Maybe even better.

_So much better, darling sweet pea. So much better._

The boys are all standing there, like a ridiculous statue from ancient Rome, one next to the other, completely petrified. Dean can remember freezing like that after witnessing their violence for the first time; he recalls the inability to move, he recalls the disgust he felt back then, he recalls it all, and it makes his chest swell with pride to know that he finally got back at them, that he finally managed to make them feel that hopeless.

“Who’s next, huh?” he asks, daring them to move, daring them to try to punch him like Zach did.

Not that he needs the provocation. Even if they just stand there, he will walk up to each and every one of them eventually, and he will kill them all.

“What kind of a sick fuck are you?” Raphael squeezes out eventually, still frozen in his spot.

Dean smiles, running his bloodied fingers through his hair. He looks to the side, taking in the sight of a dead body, a real dead body out of the corner of his eyes, and he shrugs. That’s all the answer they’re getting.

Looking back up at them, he shrugs his shoulder like it’s been decided. “So I guess _you’re_ next,” he states, looking directly at Raphael.

_Step over the dead idiot’s body and go up to the other one. He wants to run DON’T LET HIM RUN!_

_Take him by his hair and yank at it. Oh is that blood on his scalp? Nice nice. Nice. You know what, you can kick him, or punch him. Pick one. Right in the stomach, okay? So you make him breathless. Oh he’ll make the prettiest sound when you kick the air out of him._

Dean grips Raphael’s shoulders to hold him in place and his knee connects with stomach. It _is_ the prettiest sound that Raphael makes, oh boy. Dean revels in it. He, much like Zach did, starts to fall to the ground, but Dean holds him up.

_Look at his face, darling. Look at all that hate. Don’t you want to wipe it off?_

_Oh oh oh remember the time you almost killed Gordon? Why don’t you do_ that _now with this stupid little tool in your hands? Oh he’s right in front of you and his neck is begging to be squeezed. Come on darling sweet pea, do it._

Dean wraps his right hand around Raphael’s neck and squeezes, unaware of how much force he’s using, not really caring; the only thing that matters to him now is just how much Raphael’s eyes start bulging out after a few seconds, how his hands start clawing at Dean’s blood-red hands. He smirks when he sees the struggle on the boy’s face as life starts to seep out of him.

_Squeeze just a bit more, oh my can you feel his pulse finally growing slower and slower against your palm isn’t it amazing? Just twist your thumb a little to get the angle just right and press on his stupid neck, keep the life out of him, he doesn’t deserve to be alive. Look at his eyes rolling back so sweetly, you can see the death in them already and if you just –_

A streak of bright light blinds Dean for a second, almost hurting his head. With his free hand, he tries to block it, covering his eyes.

It’s the headlights he was waiting for way back when.

Everything happens so quickly then.

_Darling sweet pea we are so close darling please. Kill them all please before they kill you._

Honestly, Dean is just surprised that the voice can _beg_ , not just command; perhaps that’s why he doesn’t see the knife coming. He doesn’t even know which one of the remaining two boys it was that stabbed him right in his lower back, but it was one of them, and he’s gotta give them kudos for that; that they managed to unfreeze. As much as he’s always thought that nothing from his biology lessons managed to stick, with certainty he knows that the blade went and ripped through his flesh, damaging the bones, cutting through his spinal cord.

_HOLD YOURSELF TOGETHER STITCH YOURSELF UP WE CAN’T DIE LIKE THIS WITHOUT CARVING THE WORLD UP_

But Dean’s body is still human, is the thing. And human bodies are very breakable; knives hurt them, knives hurt them real bad. It’s just such a shame that this happened before he could finish them all off, before the spell could take control over everything and make him immortal, something much better than stupid breakable human bodies.

Raphael’s body falls out of Dean’s suddenly weak hands, and fuck, Dean didn’t even get anywhere with him; he scrambles away while coughing for his life, out of the – out of the way, because the knife wasn’t everything.

(But he does gasp in a guttural loud echoing ear splitting way when the knife is forcibly removed and blood bubbles up and out of the wound)

Oh, the headlights.

_Oh it’s that stupid bitch you should have killed her you should take the knife that stabbed you and drive it through her forehead then just keep forcing it down and slicing her up till she’s two halves._

Dean inhales sharply when he hears the engine roar, but Ruby isn’t looking at him. She’s looking over his shoulder, as if she couldn’t imagine herself truly doing this.

“Just fucking do it, Ruby! He fucking killed Zach!” Michael yells, hysteria clear in his voice.

She does bring the pedal down to the floor then, oh yeah, she does.

The car rams into Dean full-force, and for a second, every violent thought in his head is aimed at himself; he hates himself for not stepping to the side, for not realizing what was supposed to happen, for being paralyzed yet again, when it was so important to move. Completely forgetting that his legs refused to listen to him when he willed them to move, the stab wound immobilizing him.

It doesn’t hurt, not really, _not yet_. The momentum of it sends him flying through the air, though; ironically enough, he lands in the pool of Zachariah’s blood, right next to the boy’s smashed up face. The car flies past him and he’s just lying there, just lying there lifelessly.

_I WILL KILL YOU_ , the voice shrieks, right in Dean’s head, and Dean knows that for the first time since he got the spell done the vicious words are meant for him.

He tries to press his palm against the stab wound, but he knows that he’s broken now; he can’t move his feet when he tries (but it’s when the pain comes). It runs down his back, rivulets of sweat right next to it, all pooling up around the hot inflamed flesh surrounding the wound.

The voice leaves him just around the same time the car flies by again, Ruby driving Michael and Gordon away, taking Raphael to the hospital, probably having called the police by now. Dean doesn’t have to be Einstein to know that he’ll be dead by the time they start up their stupid sirens and make it here.

Funny, how he’ll be the bad guy.

He laughs, his breaths coming out wheezy and tired. His head is excruciatingly quiet, not even a word that would keep him company.

At least the black eyes have stayed; when Dean looks up at the sky, the stars look brighter and nicer, somewhat closer to his face. As if he could reach out and capture them in his palm. Cramps seize his stomach, but he refuses to curl up; he remains on his back, staring up.

His heartbeat slowly but surely grows slower, the thumping of blood quieter and quieter in his ears. Even the pain seems more bearable now; cold envelops him instead, making it hard to breathe or to move. It’s a lost battle, he tells himself, sounding and feeling so tired.

But at least the stars are still so bright, constellations weaving across the sky. Cas would know which ones they are, he thinks, smiling at least inside of his head even if he can’t make the corners of his mouth actually go up. Cas would know.

The stars reflect in Dean’s black eyes before they close for good.


	11. epilogue

The name _Dean_ comes from a word in Old English, meaning valley.

Castiel thinks about that sitting on the hard wooden bench of the funeral home, his fists against his thighs, stone-like and unmoving.

He imagines standing in one. In a valley, that is. He imagines two high sky-reaching mountains by his sides like solemn companions, the sky itself up above him. He imagines it clear, the occasional cloud passing over his head quietly, a mile up. He imagines the grass, green and vibrant and soft when he runs his fingers through it, and he imagines the sound of a river trickling down its path, not in his sight but still present. He can just feel the slight breeze on his face, summery and gentle, playing with his hands.

He imagines a boy in the valley with him; freckled skin and full pink lips, golden hair. Golden boy. Dean. He imagines holding his warm hand in his and not letting go.

Castiel imagines all of that over and over again, the daydream, the _fantasy_ quiet and wordless, peaceful.

It’s only so that he can block out everything the pastor is saying, honestly. He doesn’t want to hear about wasted lives, about twisted youth, about seeking God; he doesn’t care.

Comprehending this all is too big and too impossible. The worst thing is not the body squeezed in the coffin; the worst thing is that everyone is tense, not even a sob audible.

How do you hold a funeral for someone you think is a vicious killer of the innocent?

They don’t know better, they just don’t know any better, Castiel reminds himself, sighing and looking down at his hands. Minutes tick by and the pastor keeps on talking, and Anna sitting next to him gently covers Castiel’s fist, and Mary Winchester there in the first row is sitting straight up, probably staring numbly, cringing when John tries to put his arm around her shoulders.

All Castiel wants to do is have Dean here, ironically. He wants it to be _his_ hand to touch him with intended comfort. It feels like if Cas turned to his side, Dean would be just there, wearing one of his old band shirts and a leather jacket over that, and he would smirk like he always did, well, before it all went to Hell.

It feels empty, to sit here and let the pastor remind them, every other second, that the boy they loved is dead. The valley boy; probably lost between too-high mountains for an eternity. It feels so, so empty.

The benches creak when they all get up after it’s finally, finally done. Castiel’s palms sweat as he slowly makes his way towards the Winchesters. He can’t even imagine looking them in the eye; tempted to tell them, _Dean was the brightest person I have ever met and he would never hurt anyone if this all didn’t happen to him, you have to trust me_. He can’t tell them; he knows Dean wouldn’t like that. Make their suffering minimal, Castiel tells himself, but there are only so many things he can do.

He’s surprised when Mary envelops him in a hug. Her embrace is warm and motherly, the kind Castiel has never had a chance to experience with his own mother, and he melts into it, however strong he wanted to be.

“I still can’t believe it,” she whispers into Cas’ ear in that voice of hers and they both know that she means _I still can’t believe he would hurt anyone, I don’t think it’s the truth._

“Me neither,” Castiel whispers back as if in conspiracy. Oh God, the truth is eating him up alive, and the worst thing about _this_? It’s knowing that it’s perfectly possible; he doesn’t want to believe but he knows that Dean really could have called them all out and he could have killed Zachariah without provocation. It’s so easy to believe that, actually.

Logically, it should be impossible; what Castiel knows – knew – of Dean is clear as day; Dean wouldn’t harm anyone. Even their last meeting, the stupid graduation ceremony, made it feel like everything was going to be okay. Was that a lie? Was that all just a lie?

He shakes hands with John Winchester, but he doesn’t dare to look in his eyes; he’s not as easy as Mary, and his oldest son’s death has hardened him already, roughened up his features so that he looks ten years older. As Castiel moves on to Sam, he does steal a look; there are tears glistening in the boy’s eyes.

There are no words to be exchanged with Sam Winchester.

They stare at each other, as if they both had secrets that needed to be shared but neither of them had the capacity to spill them.

“I’m so sorry,” Castiel manages to squeeze out, feeling his own tears welling up in his eyes and threatening to fall.

Sam nods. It takes him a second to recollect himself, but in the end, he adds, “Can you come over sometime?”

Castiel doesn’t know. Because the door to Dean’s room will always be closed but Castiel will still know the Star Wars poster that hangs there, he will still remember the books standing neat on those bookshelves, he will still remember the scent of Dean’s bed sheets.

“Of course,” he says, his eyes downcast.

Sam surprises him as much as Mary did with another hug. They’re almost the same height now and Sam buries his face in Castiel’s neck, leaving him no choice but to hug back. Castiel’s arms are tense and awkward when he wraps them around Sam for a few moments.

He wants to say that he misses Dean, but in a way, the hug says it all, and it’s not like letting it out would change anything. Sam probably understands anyway; maybe he even knows that despite his words, it may take a long, long time before Castiel comes over to hang out, if ever.

At least getting this done is sort of freeing. Stupidly, he does expect the fourth Winchester to be standing there next to Sam, waiting for Cas to move up to him, but of course, the fourth Winchester is cold and dead, dead, dead.

“Just a few minutes, okay?” he asks of Anna when he spots Bela and Charlie in the crowd.

He makes his way over to them, realizing that while Bela always wears something black, this is the first time he’s seen Charlie wear it; black plants, black shirt, black blazer. Her red hair is too bright in contrast.

How do you start a conversation with someone who shares your deadly secret?

He just nods at them when he gets to them, and, what is it with people just hugging him today? Charlie practically jumps at him, throwing her arms around his neck and pulling him closer, brief enough for Cas not to have to reciprocate. It’s just – he is so numb, there is nothing in him, _he is an empty valley_.

“I was super worried about you,” Charlie tells him in a hushed voice when she pulls back, catching Bela’s hand in hers once again. “When you didn’t pick up the phone and your sister told us you didn’t want to see anyone.”

“Yeah,” Castiel says, looking away, unable to hold their stare. “I just didn’t think there was anything else to be said.”

“This is a fucking disaster,” Bela utters under her breath, and when Castiel looks up at her, she’s toying with her necklace, looking to the ground, her long lashes casting shadows on her sharp cheekbones. Her wavy hair falls on her shoulders; she looks beautiful, just like Charlie does, so settled and calm and as numb as he is. Does that bind them? How would they react if he told them they looked beautiful, stunning in the light that fights its way through the blinds of the funeral home? They would probably think he’s disgusting, but if he can hold on to something that’s truly beautiful, he will.

“Do you think,” he starts, taking a deep breath, not sure he’ll really say it until he does, “Do you think it’s better this way?”

“Don’t talk like that,” Charlie shushes him right away, but Bela looks almost distant, as if she was ashamed of actually agreeing.

It’s all in her posture; she wouldn’t have found anything to stop it, and however hard she tried she wouldn’t have come up with the right reverse spell, and that’s why Cas can’t stop thinking; that’s why he can’t even sleep; that’s why sometimes he considers that maybe, this is for the best.

The other boy is dead, too, of course, and they could have done without it, but a small part of Castiel thinks that that’s for the best as well. But it’s not about Zachariah and for him, it never has been; no matter what they did to him. This is about Dean and how sickening the thought is that now, at least he gets to rest. Now, he finally won’t be so tired, he finally won’t look so sad. Does death ever mean redemption? And when does Cas get to feel it? He recognizes the truth in it, but he can’t accept it.

“I apologize,” he whispers, reaching out and squeezing Charlie’s shoulder in what he hopes is comfort. He exchanges a knowing glance with Bela. “I’ll see you?”

“We’re going back to my place,” Bela explains, “We thought you’d come with us.”

Castiel shakes his head. “I think I’d rather be alone today. But I’ll call you later, okay?” He doesn’t want to lose everyone, is the thing.

Bela nods and Charlie tries a smile, even though the corners of her mouth are still on the verge of going down rather than up. “Take care, ‘kay?”

“Sure,” he mumbles, not sure at all.

He navigates the thinning crowd again as he leaves the girls with a wave, feeling even less close to them than back when he walked up to them on his first day of school. He spots Anna near the door, looking down at her phone.

“Can we go?” he suggests the second he gets to her and her eyes snap up.

She nods, wordless, as if she wanted to leave him alone with his thoughts; no one, except Dean, has ever understood this -- just her.

To fill the awkward silence in the car, Anna turns the radio on.

When _Hey Jude_ comes on (still better than if _All My Loving_ came on), Castiel, before he can control himself, lets out a muffled laugh that sounds more like a sob. Anna changes the station promptly and Castiel clamps his hand over his mouth, turning away from her, looking out of the window at the houses passing by. _No, no, no_ , he tells himself, and while it keeps the tears away, his insides crumble; he feels like he’s being taken apart.

 

///

 

Three days later, Castiel is not very proud to admit to himself that he’s probably said just as many words (as in, three), and they were probably just ‘yeah, no, sure.’ All to Anna; Castiel has become amazing at shutting the world away.

On Monday morning, when Anna finally leaves for work, because at least the school year isn’t quite over for her, he takes his time getting out of bed; it’s nearly noon when he finally crawls out of there. He can’t even smell Dean on his pillow anymore, so there’s no point in staying there.

Running his fingers through his greasy hair, he responsibly opts for having a shower.

Which is mostly just standing underneath the stream of too-hot water and staring at the bathroom tiles, watching rivulets of it running down their surface.

He doesn’t walk out of the bathroom until one in the afternoon, his stomach grumbling in hunger; which he ignores without much trouble, only stopping by the fridge to take a gulp of milk and then continue on his rather mindless path that goes around the apartment.

It’s not that he’s always actively thinking about Dean; it’s just that there’s no point, that’s honestly it.

Eventually, he wears himself out; moping around is not something Castiel ever did before and it doesn’t feel okay to him; it’s like a rash on his skin that he, as the afternoon goes on, has to scratch at no matter how much he tries not to. And he does want to stay in this strange shell of grief that he has been living in, but in a way, he _can’t_.

So, putting on some actual clean clothes, he prepares himself for the big task: which is really just getting the mail, but it seems ginormous when Castiel so much as thinks about it.

Moments later, the task having gone okay, he’s skimming through various bills and a weird postcard for Anna from someone named Mark (he should probably ask about that; except he doesn’t feel like listening to a love story right now), he comes across a letter that’s addressed to him.

He frowns, scrunching up his face, and turns it around in his hand at least twice before looking at the stamp. It doesn’t take that long then to figure out that it’s a letter from the University he applied to, back when that was a difficult decision to make, back when he had more than just a grave to consider.

Retreating back to the kitchen, he places all the mail on the kitchen counter and leans against it, opening up the letter. This could decide his future; maybe it will tear him out of this numbness, or push him in even further, depending on the result.

His fingers tear at it and he hastily pulls out the folded paper; despite his numbness, he can feel the roots of anxiety settling in his gut.

Unfolding it, his eyes skim to the important part (past the stupid Mr. Novak bullshit), but he only gets as far as the words _we are happy to inform you_ when the buzzer goes off.

Castiel’s eyes snap up and he briefly considers not answering it. He goes over his options in his head; it could be a random someone asking for money, it could be some desperate salesperson, or it could be Anna getting home early and forgetting her keys. The paper dampens around his fingers as his hands sweat up. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone, but if it’s Anna, then –

There’s a knock on the door.

Castiel’s frown deepens, and he quietly starts hating whoever it was that let the person in. His conscience not letting him ignore it, he places the letter on the kitchen counter, adding it to the pile of unopened mail, and he drags his feet towards the door.

He works on putting up his best polite expression – a hint of a smile, hopefully not the complete bitch face that he’s feeling deep in his chest. When he unlocks the door and opens it, though, whatever the expression he was trying to maintain freezes and then deforms, making his features fall, replacing it with a look of total shock.

It’s Dean. It’s Dean staring down at him, sporting a hint of a smile as well, fresh and beautiful and very much alive.

“You’re not hallucinating,” the boy says as if understanding right away what’s going on in Castiel’s head. “I don’t know how it’s possible, either.”

Castiel remains speechless; whatever words that want to burble up his throat never actually make it, coming to a halt because his mouth is shut tight; he feels like he would scream otherwise, in joy perhaps, or in shock, but he keeps his lips tight together either way.

For a short few seconds, Castiel doesn’t think he’s _real_. It feels like he’s just a something floating around in space, somehow circling back to his own apartment and watching this scene play out in front of him, with _Dean_ standing in the doorway, _alive_.

But then he becomes aware of his body again, so heavy around its bones, and he lurches forward. His arms wrap around Dean’s waist, truly feeling him, _it’s real this is all real he’s real he’s alive_. He rests his heavy forehead against Dean’s chest, his mouth open and wide in a genuine smile. And then the only thing missing finally comes to rest in its place; Dean’s arms pull Cas closer, holding him, soft lips pressing against the crown of his head.

Castiel’s fingers bury into the fabric of Dean’s shirt (he’s not wearing the stupid suit he was buried in, he must have stopped at home, sneaked in and snagged this, but then he came right here, then he came right to see Cas) and squeeze, clutching it, bringing Dean closer and closer. Castiel thought he had lost this for good; the warmth of Dean’s body, his smell, the way his body shapes around Castiel’s.

“Can I come in?” Dean asks almost shyly when they break apart, Castiel’s face burning hot, making him flush. Where he didn’t cry after Dean’s death, he feels like all those tears that he choked back will come calling now. But he manages to hold them back, despite the growing tight ball of pain and sobs at the back of his throat.

He nods, his hand subconsciously finding Dean’s. Any doubt he could have had is gone; Dean’s fingers are hot to the touch, real blood pulsing through them, actual skin against skin again, like in the stupidest fantasy.

Wordless, they make it to Castiel’s room, the only sanctuary in this place, a clear destination for both of them. Just as quiet, they settle on Castiel’s bed, sitting opposite each other with their legs crossed, just like when they swapped presents all those long months ago, except they’re holding hands now; Castiel is squeezing Dean’s in his like it’s his lifeline.

“How?” he breathes out, unable to tear his eyes away from Dean’s face, inspecting every freckle, the color of his lips, the way his hair seems soft and washed, the way his green eyes seem to shine like they haven’t in months before his death. It’s so good to be right; Castiel knew it was for the better, he just – he just didn’t know you had to die first to get your life back.

Dean shakes his head, laughing. “I don’t know, Cas,” he says, his thumb brushing the back of Castiel’s palm, offering comfort. “All I can tell you is that it’s not another spell Bela managed to pull.”

Castiel laughs, almost hysterical. “Promise?”

“’Course I do,” he says and he shuffles forwards, opening up his legs till they’re body against body, their feet hugging each other’s waist. When Dean speaks next, Castiel can feel his hot breath, God, so very human, on his face. “I think it’s – Don’t laugh at me, okay?”

Castiel’s fingers run up Dean’s forearm idly. “No, tell me.”

“I think, when they got me? I already wasn’t me. I don’t remember much of it, you know? But I think that the spell took over at that point, and I think that when I died, it wasn’t really _me_ that went down, y’know? Like it was just the spell that burned out. The spell they got. But I’m not – I’m not gonna go and question it.”

Reaching out, Castiel takes Dean’s face and traces his features with his trembling fingers, trying to smoothen them up from where they grew cold and distant as he spoke. The tips of his fingers run over Dean’s cheekbones and caress his jaw, then travel back up to his forehead, until Castiel finally runs them over the hair on the sides of Dean’s head. It’s like he’s finally getting to look at an art piece from up close; unable to stop marveling at it, adoring it.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” he whispers suddenly, “This is real.”

Dean takes one of Castiel’s fingers gently and cups it, leans into the touch as it lands back on Dean’s cheek again. “It is,” he breathes out, closing his eyes and sighing deeply, like the big fight is finally over, like he can finally rest.

Castiel leans in slowly, before thinking about it too much, and brushes his lips against Dean’s, dry and rough, but somehow soft at the same time. Dean reacts within seconds; he pulls Cas closer and parts his lips for him, and yes, Castiel could cry right now, it feels like coming home.

“You know, I was supposed to be the one always coming back,” he mumbles into Dean’s mouth, making the boy smile into the kiss.

Dean pulls away for a second. “I just wanted to come back once, okay? You can keep the rest for yourself. But I needed to come back to you,” he says, and sure, it’s cheesy as hell and makes Cas roll his eyes, but at the same time, this is more than Castiel could ever ask for. It’s more than most people get. When you’re dead, you’re dead; no exceptions.

“What happened that night?” Castiel prompts.

“As I said, I don’t remember much of it,” Dean repeats, looking away momentarily. “And what I do remember, I don’t really wanna talk about.”

Castiel nods, understanding; God, he heard what Zachariah looked like, heard how it was nearly impossible to identify him because his face was unrecognizable and his body was just a pile of broken bones.

So they hold each other instead, words unimportant; Dean lays his head on Castiel’s shoulder and pulls him close, and it’s not like Castiel does anything differently; clutching Dean’s shirt again, he holds him, just simply holds him, not needing anything more. To feel the weight of Dean’s body in his arms is everything right now; he can feel his beating heart, he can hear his breath against his ear, he can feel him all over himself, and when you think you’ve lost something like that and then the universe gives it back to you, really, all you can do is grab it. Castiel probably wouldn’t be able to do much else.

“I think I’m hungry,” Dean says after a few more minutes of silence, of just being together like Cas thought they would never be again, the happiness he’s feeling perfectly comparable to the way he felt when they finally kissed for the first time. And what Dean says, it just sounds so normal, like they just got together to have another Harry Potter marathon, like all the bad stuff never happened – it’s freeing, it’s so genuinely freeing to hear something so normal.

He smiles, brushing his cheek against Dean’s briefly before he pulls away from the hug. “Me too,” he states. “Pizza?”

“Hell yeah,” Dean says, a smile spreading across his face as well, mirroring Cas’; wide and genuine and happy, full of life. “Gotta go to the bathroom first.”

“Sure,” Castiel nods, untangling himself from Dean and reaching for his phone. “I’ll order while you do that.”

Dean gets up from the bed, not tearing his eyes away from Castiel’s face as he crosses the room to the door, as if he couldn’t stop looking, as if the world was a miracle to look at, and Cas was lucky enough to be a part of that world.

When the door closes after Dean, Castiel remains sitting on his bed, bewildered, as if the happenings of the last half an hour have finally started to catch up to him. His phone in one hand, he runs the fingers of the other through his hair and he laughs, a guttural sound escaping from his lungs, loud and clear and happy.

God, they’ll tell the girls. They can call them once Dean’s back from the bathroom. They can just – they can just cuddle up together, they can live, what with the spell now dead, finally gone from Dean’s body. They can just exist.

They can have the best summer of their lives, just like Castiel promised.

He’s still thinking about that when he finally dials the number he saved months ago when they moved here and he found out that the local Pizzeria has the best stuff he’s ever tasted. It doesn’t even ring once when Castiel ends the call, shaking his head at himself.

He knows which pizza he’ll go for, but Dean’s tastes are unpredictable, and Cas forgot to ask him.

Jumping off the bed, the phone still in his hand, he crosses the room quickly and walks up the hallway towards the bathroom. The door is slightly ajar; not wanting to interrupt anything, Castiel leans in first to listen, but when he realizes that it’s quiet in there, except for the water going, he briefly knocks on the door and steps in.

Dean is washing his hands in the sink, the bright light of the bathroom casting shadows upon his skin. His head snaps up when Castiel enters the room, and Cas looks at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Dean smirks as they catch each other’s eyes.

Dean’s are shiny, deep and black.

 

 

_“Everything in the universe denies nothing; to suggest an ending is the one absurdity.”  
Stephen King_

**Author's Note:**

> ...and here we are. If you made it: thank you, I love you. I really, really hope you liked it.
> 
> Thank you so much for giving this fic a chance, guys. It is the longest thing I've ever written (in English) and I'm kind of attached to it. Every single reader means the world to me. ♥
> 
> You can come talk to me [ on Tumblr](http://deanghostchester.tumblr.com/ask). Speaking of which, I have an [inspo tag](http://deanghostchester.tumblr.com/tagged/pdref) for this, filled with dozens of pics and graphics (in case you wanted to check that out). Oh, and a very important reminder that there's gorgeous art you can check out [here](http://padaleckhi.tumblr.com/post/132229617437/the-shadows-we-draw-by-deanghostchester-aka) and a truly amazing mix you can listen to [here](http://8tracks.com/padaleckhi/the-shadows-we-draw).
> 
> And... yeah. I'll see you next year, I guess! <3


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